


Il Dolce Suono (The Sweet Sound)

by willgrahamchops



Series: In Extremis [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (for some definitions of 'happy'), Amputation, Body Modification, Cannibalism Play, Confinement, Emetophilia, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Face-Fucking, Force-Feeding, Gore, Happy Ending, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Kink, Mental Health Issues, Murder Husbands, Murder Kink, Necrophilia, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Skull Fucking, Stockholm Syndrome, Surgery, Torture, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:03:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 79,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>moral decline (n) - psychological shift in an individual or community, characterized by reduced adherence to cultural or social norms or values and widespread lapses in ethical behavior</i> </p>
<p>Will Graham's destruction is slow, painful, and well deserved, at the hands of the only person he's every really trusted. He expected nothing less. But Hannibal is unpredictable in ways only a psychopath can be, and he's orchestrated a rebirth which is entirely unexpected but not entirely unwelcome: catharsis, codependence, and a return to the animal instinct Will has spent his entire life repressing.</p>
<p>  <i>At last, Will says, “What do you want me to do with him?”</i></p>
<p>  <i>Hannibal smiles.</i><br/> <br/><i>“Everything you don't want me to do to you.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sulla Tomba Che Rinserra (On the Tomb That Encloses)

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been updated in preparation for positing the sequel. I’ve added a few scenes and done some heavy editing.
> 
> WARNING: this is brutally graphic, self-indulgent torture porn. It's fucking nasty and potentially triggering, and in no way represents healthy views of relationships, psychotherapy, mental illness, violence, morally acceptable behavior, or anything, really. Read at your own risk. If you're on the fence, please see the end notes for a detailed, spoilery elaboration on potentially triggering content.
> 
> Contains: abusive relationships, amputation, blood, **corpses/necrophilia** , **cannibalism** , **claustrophobia** , death, drinking, dental trauma, **emotional abuse/bad therapy** , physical abuse, sexual abuse, **drug use** , starvation, forced captivity, graphic sex, kidnapping, **medical procedures** , murder, needles, rape, self-harm, serious injury, smoking, suicide (attempted), swearing, **torture** , violence, vomit, watersports, weapons.
> 
> Doesn't contain: underaged characters, misogyny, transphobia, slurs, decay/unsanitary, animal abuse, ableism, major character death, m/f rape, and probably some other triggers (though not many.)
> 
> This is not a safe way to practice kink. I’m also not a doctor, and I can’t promise that it’s medically accurate. Don’t try this at home.
> 
> **I’m always looking for partners to RP disgusting Hannigram shit. Email me at anatomysticc@gmail.com!**

_"There is only one antidote to mental suffering, and that is is physical pain."  
Karl Marx_

Will wakes up alone, crying, in the dark.

He can't move his arms or legs. He can't move  _anything._ All around him is this inexplicable, unrelenting pressure. It makes his bones ache and crushes his lungs to half capacity at best—and he should breathe, focus on breathing, but every bit of hard-won air tears from his throat in a terrified, broken scream.

Is he dreaming? Is he paralyzed? Is he  _dead?_

His fingers twitch. Not paralysis. His surroundings are black. It's an oppressive darkness, soft, engulfing him. That, or he's blind. It’s possible—likely, even.

He’s ravished by bone-deep fatigue; his back cramps, and his hamstrings are so tight they’d probably ring like piano keys if struck. His legs shouldn't bend this way. He's folded in half, knees to chest, ankles crossed behind his head.

Will's screams taper off into tortured sobs as the reality of the situation dawns on him. He's trapped in some sort of container, glass or thick plastic surrounding him on all sides. It's hard to tell because it's all warm from his body heat and getting warmer with every minute of panic. He's naked. He doesn't know why that didn't register earlier, but it adds a new, profane dimension to what is already the worst nightmare he’s ever had.

How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is changing the dogs' water last night—no, brushing his teeth. He remembers that, remembers drinking a nightcap, and then nothing. Darkness.

His academic library of coping skills is useless. No matter how he twists the facts into rationalizations, his mind circles back to the savage horror of his situation. This box is tiny. There's barely enough space to draw breath between his contorted limbs. Someone _stuffed_  him in here. Someone stretched his legs into this position, or else the tendons behind his knees would have torn to shreds.

Will doesn't have these brutal, life-or-death panic attacks often—psychotic episodes are more his style—but he can't stop it from happening. That's the worst part; he knows it's happening but he can't  _do_  anything about it. There's not enough fucking air in this box. Blood pounds through every vessel in his body. His ribs ache, his lungs burn, his face goes numb, and the harder he breathes, the worse it gets.

Tears drip onto his belly, leaving behind itchy salt deposits as they evaporate. Each one adds to the pressure in the box, taking up the precious space his body needs to occupy. It's hell. His brain is boiling in his skull, short circuiting as he slowly goes mad.

He's on the verge of passing out, but with his precious breath he screams the only word his frantic mind can conjure:

“Hannibal! HANNIBAL!”

Over and over again until his throat is raw and his screams turn to soft whimpers and then to nothing at all. He slips into blissful unconsciousness.

~

Half naked on his front porch, shivering in the crisp autumn air, Will makes a fist and presses it hard into his stomach, as if he's trying to reach the spine on the other side.

Maybe there was a time, before he left the bureau, when he could envision himself dying in peaceful seclusion on a beach somewhere, surrounded by his dogs, no threat to anyone.

But he thinks about it all the time now. He thinks about it during lectures. He thinks about it at the grocery store, when an interesting face catches his eye, maybe a young woman standing on her toes to reach granola bars on the top shelf—he follows her car out of the parking lot, scopes her out, learns her routine. Hot, fresh blood spills over his hands as he plunges them into her gaping abdominal cavity.

He hates these hands and their autonomy, and he drives them into his stomach so he doesn't have to drive them into hers. But it doesn't fill the hole. Nothing fills the hole.

Without any conscious decision to do so, he kicks off the front porch, startling the dogs. They yap and dance around his feet as he stumbles into the living room, toward the neglected embers in the fireplace, and drops to his knees on the hearth.

The blackness inside of him pulses. He can’t wait. He has to make it _stop._

The iron grate is not quite red but piping hot. He grips his left wrist in his right hand and forces his forearm onto the horizontal metal bar. Flesh sizzles. The stench of burning hair permeates the room. Millions of years of evolution tug his arm away, but Will is stronger—he takes the pain, raw and wet and real.

A concerned tongue laps at one of his bare feet. That's what snaps him out of it, and as he pulls away, melted flesh sloughs off his arm and adheres to the grate. It leaves an angry red patch in its wake, about the size of Will's little finger, and he falls backward off the hearth, clutching his wound. He knows he's only making it worse. The pain doesn't dissipate; it doubles as the fat of his arm touches open air for the first time.

Whining, wet noses investigate his exposed flesh. He has the presence of mind to drag himself to the recliner, get his arm up and away from the dogs before the smell of cooked meat draws them in. He collapses sideways over the armrest and cradles the pain close to his chest.

He needs to get to the kitchen and run the burn under cold water. Adrenaline courses through him, enhancing his senses so he can react to the threat—but he doesn't move. Will shivers in his chair, observing the scene with trauma-enhanced clarity. His dogs sniff around for source of the delicious smell, their claws clicking against the wood floor. The wind whistles down the chimney. Embers and flesh crackle in the fireplace, the scent surprisingly similar to cooked bacon, and he doesn't blame the dogs for their interest.

The world is quiet. His mind is quiet, if only for a few moments.

~

It could be an hour or a day before he wakes up; there's no way to tell. The world no longer stinks of sweat and fear.

But he's still in the box.

He screams until his throat is raw. What else can he do? He can't move, can't even think, has no choice but to endure. Endure, and cry, and hurt— _God_ does it hurt, worse than getting shot, worse than anything he could previously imagine, and imagination pays his fucking bills.

They can't steal that from him. He imagines himself somewhere else, spacious and far away: pine trees jutting like giant fingers from a riverbank, the familiar weight of a fly fishing rod in his hand, soft rustle of his dogs sniffing around in the undergrowth. He wades into the cool water.

But he loses his footing; he slips over the edge of the rock shelf. One frantic gasp of air and then he's sinking down, down, plummeting into a jagged wound in the earth, and every second puts miles of black water between him and the surface. His eardrums rupture. Blood vessels explode behind his cold, unseeing eyes. Instinct forces water into his lungs and down his throat until he’s full to bursting with freezing darkness.

His pulse skyrockets. He sucks in desperate gasps of air, but it's stale, recycled, depleted of the oxygen he needs to sustain consciousness. Head pounding, jaw clenching,  _please please please make it stop, let me out, let me breathe._

Fade to black. Rinse, repeat.

He has no idea how many times he passes out only to awaken again in the smothering darkness, muscles screaming for relief. Eventually he can't even muster the energy for another panic attack, so he suffers in silence. He stops dreaming of release and begins wishing for death.

A very, very long time later, he sees a sliver of light.

This could be the end of the tunnel, but it's hard to tell—he's been in total darkness for so long that the light illuminates nothing. He can pray, though, that it’s Death.

Without warning, his center of gravity shifts. There's a sickening crack as he impacts the glass wall, and it takes him a pathetically long time to figure out that the box has been pushed onto its back. Fresh air floods the container.

The first breath is ecstasy. The second is quick and deep and very involuntary, and before he knows it he's hyperventilating again, breathing so fast that his face tingles and dark spots bloom like bloodstains across his vision.

He gets as far as wrapping his hands around the open edge of the container, but he's far too weak to lever himself out—and then the door slams shut on his fingers. A strong hand snares his still-tender forearm and yanks it back out of the opening, nearly wrenching his shoulder out of the socket.

This is his chance. Do something! Say something! His voice is raspy and broken, and all he can manage is a barely audible _“help.”_

His captor laughs—the quiet, sadistic laugh of a man who is right and knows it.

An IV needle bites into the back of Will's hand, and before he can do anything to stop it, heavy leather crushes it into a fist. Some sort of padded glove, buckled around his wrist and secured with the click of a padlock. A similar glove is locked onto his right hand, minus the IV, and then they’re joined in front by yet another lock. Will fights every step of the way, but for all the good it does he'd be better off conserving his energy.

“No,” he chokes. “Please let me out, d-don't leave me here. _Please—_ ”

The door slams shut. A padlock closes. Silence.

“Wait! Please don't do this,” he croaks, before shuddering through another violent coughing fit. His throat is raw, but he resumes begging at full volume as soon as he can breathe again. It's a waste of oxygen, and it's the only thing he can do.

No reply. A few footsteps and the faint crinkle of plastic.

Cold panic floods his IV port. He scrambles desperately with the gloves, trying to yank the needle out of his hand, but it's futile.

“What are you doing to me?” 

The question hovers unanswered in empty air.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he mumbles. For all he knows, he's being poisoned. He could die here, naked and alone.

But hours pass, and he's forced to conclude that the IV drip won't kill him. In fact, he's pretty sure it's just saline, because the thirst that's been plaguing him wanes. He relaxes, as much as it's possible to relax in a space which would make an inhumane dog crate.

And then:

It starts as a gentle tingle in the back of his neck. Just a faint shimmer of relief. He thinks for a moment he imagined it…but no, something is happening, and it's not in his head. A sweet, familiar warmth washes over him, subtle at first but gaining traction. The pain and fatigue melt away. His ruthlessly strict position becomes more bearable by the minute.

Sweet, sweet intravenous painkillers.

Will is no stranger to narcotics—he had his share of injuries in the force—but this is more than a standard therapeutic dose. A lot more. Every ache, every strained tendon and crushed joint is replaced by blissful numbness, and chemical euphoria lights up his brain's pleasure centers like the Las Vegas strip. It's more than relief. It's orgasmic. He wants to shout his gratitude to the heavens.

But God Almighty didn't inject morphine into his IV port. No, that was man who put him here, who is keeping him alive but only enough to suffer. And this narcotic hit is neither a gift nor a blessing. 

Will can only think of one person—“person” for lack of a better word—who would do this to him. Someone who’s been following Will's movements for some time now. Someone who has a vested interest in keeping him indisposed.

The Ripper.

~

It takes three days for anyone to notice he's gone. He disappears on a Friday night, and his Monday lecture was downgraded to a planning period when he started clocking hours with the FBI. Foist it off on one of the assistant professors; Will Graham is suddenly a valuable commodity.

But the case is stagnant, and nobody asks where Will Graham's valuable brain is until Tuesday afternoon, at which point the trail has cooled considerably. Hannibal gets a phone call on Tuesday night.

“When was the last time you saw Will Graham?”

“He missed his Friday appointment,” Hannibal says. “Why? Has something happened?”

Something has happened. Will is missing in action, without so much as taunting newsprint collage for the police to go on. A tragedy.

Tattlecrime snaps up the story, front page coverage with a predictably tasteless sensationalist spin. Jack lets it happen because he's out of ideas, and maybe the kidnapper reads Tattlecrime. It's happened before. Office phones ring off the hooks, but nobody has any of the details they withheld from the media. Lonely folks, attention seekers, and the delusional—no real leads.

Jack spearheads the search effort with every ounce of vigor in his overworked, aching bones, but even that cannot prevent morale slipping from “hopeful” to “closed-casket funeral.” He confides this over a glass of brandy, staring into the fireplace in Hannibal's office. Try as he might to convince himself that there is still hope, he knows deep down that he is no longer searching for his friend and co-worker. He's searching for a body.

~

Will's body, wracked with chills and exhaustion, is already desperate for another dose of relief. He doesn't know how long it's been, because time here is only measured by his intermittent unconsciousness and the fullness of his bladder, but it feels like days have passed since the effects of that first injection gave way to suffering. He waits and waits for another dose, but it never comes.

What he gets instead is relief only in that it significantly expedites his slow descent into madness.

He’s seen one opera in his life: _Lucia di Lammermoor._ He doesn't remember much about the performance, mostly remembers sitting next to his therapist in a stiff, over-starched suit. That's why it takes him several minutes to identify the music being piped into his box.

And then it hits him like an ocean wave, and hot, angry tears well up in the corners of his eyes.

It's Hannibal.

God damn it—of course it's Hannibal. Who else could execute something this elaborate? Who else would fucking bother?

The signs are all there, and glaringly obvious: the ego, the grandiosity, the shallow affect. He was a surgeon for God's sake. The first real friend Will’s had in about fifteen years is a fucking serial killer, and his life is a joke: everything he’s confided, the sleepless nights spent agonizing over him, replaying their conversations over and over in his head. They've shared a dinner table more times than he can—

Dinner.

There it is—that's the missing piece. The Ripper doesn't keep his anatomical trophies. Of course he doesn't.

He eats them.

Will fights back nausea. He won't allow himself to vomit in this box. He wants to scream his accusations, scream until Hannibal can’t ignore him, but he's too weak and too hoarse to even whimper. He cries rolling, silent tears. Accompanying his agony, the gentle woodwinds and rich soprano of Lucia's  _Il Dolce Suono:_

_Il rito per noi s'appresta! Oh, me felice!Oh gioia che si sente, e non si dice!They are preparing the rite for us! Oh, how happy I am!Oh joy that is felt but not said!_

~

The box is made of thick plastic, no more than a meter across in any direction, welded together with reinforced steel fittings. It opens at the top, the bottom, and the back, but never from two sides at once, and each panel is locked down with an industrial-grade padlock. Everything is custom-made by an acquaintance in Berlin. It's redundant, yes, but Hannibal likes it that way. Each crushing layer is another barrier between Will and the ugly world outside. He's safe in the box, though he doesn’t know it.

A thick, soundproof foam cover fits over the container, marred only by a breathing hole and a port for the IV. He hasn’t once removed it without first dosing Will with enough Valium to give an elephant amnesia.

He takes him out of the box several times a day. Will is only vaguely aware of this. He isn't allowed to be mentally present because that would defeat the entire point of captivity, but sometimes he is physically awake, and he looks at Hannibal with droopy, trusting eyes as his hands scrabble at the fabric of his suit.

Most of the time, though, his eyes roll back in his head, and he twitches with uncomprehending discomfort as Hannibal speaks to him in a low whisper, gentle reassurance that everything will be alright. Morticians often speak to bodies as if they are living patients. There's an element of ritual to it, the reverent way in which he shampoos Will’s hair, shaves his face, as if he's a rarity to be treasured.

He feeds Will a liquid diet because he can't be trusted not to choke on his own tongue when he's drugged. Hand feeding him soup and juices didn't work. Although Will was passive and compliant, everything he ate came right back up, an unfortunate reaction to the medication.

The solution is a flexible rubber feeding tube, also custom. Deep inside his stomach, the end of the outer wall inflates into a small ball, ensuring that any contractions won’t force the tube out. As a bonus, it’s all but destroyed Will's gag reflex. For the rest of his life—with some occasional upkeep, of course—his abused digestive tract will be  _much_  more accommodating to intrusion.

While he keeps Will alive and immobile, Hannibal also keeps careful tabs on the rescue effort.

They meet in Jack's office fourteen hours after Will is officially declared missing. Crawford finds this advantageous, to battle on his home turf, but Hannibal is more than comfortable. 

“This will not be admissible in court, you understand. What I’m about to tell you is no state secret, but it is an enormous breach of patient confidentiality,” he says. “I am very serious about ethics, Jack. I wouldn't even consider sharing this information if I didn’t believe Will Graham was in grave danger.”

“I understand,” Jack says, hands folded on his desk. Rapt attention.

“I take it you’re already aware of Will’s sleepwalking?”

“Local cops brought him to the station a few weeks ago. Said they found him barefoot on some back country road.” Jack frowns. “You're telling me he just wandered off?”

“You think he was kidnapped.”

“It’s the best theory we have right now,” he says. “But it doesn’t explain why there’s no sign of a struggle. He didn’t leave any sort of trail, even knowing we’d put our best men on it. Are you saying that’s because he was asleep?”

“Not asleep.”

Jack is trying hard to remain cool and disconnected. He’s close to this, Hannibal knows. Closer than he ever wanted to be. He can’t show that weakness.

“Will has discussed his sleepwalking at length in our sessions. It…troubles him.” Hannibal’s mouth twitches minutely, the barest suggestion of a smile. “What Will experiences is not your garden-variety parasomnia, but something more akin to a dissociative fugue. Sleepwalking is usually accompanied by amnesia. The body performs routine actions while the brain remains unconscious.”

Jack’s fingers tap on the desk.

“A fugue state, however, involves a much higher degree of participation. The brain isn’t asleep. The subject has simply lost his sense of identity, be it due to traumatic stress or some other psychological break. They often flee, sometimes going so far as to leave the country and create an entirely new life for themselves.”

Skepticism shines through Jack’s carefully neutral demeanor. Hannibal must tread lightly.

“Will has confided in me,” he continues. “He seems to have some recollection of these episodes. He described the experience as ‘watching a recording of a recording,’ and recalls details that a mere sleepwalker could not have remembered. In this dissociative state, he takes on the identity of another. Simple empathy, taken to its logical extreme.”

“The identity of another,” Jack repeats.

Hannibal nods. “Those whose minds are familiar to him.”

Realization is a long, tired sigh. Jack digs his thumbs into his temples.  _That’s right,_ Hannibal silently gloats.  _You did this to him, Jack._ A flutter of sadistic glee twitches in his stomach, and he can’t resist the urge to push a little further.

In a slow, measured tone: “And whose minds have Will studied at length?”

Jack doesn't have the courage to meet his eyes.

“Monsters.”

~

For all his array of psychotic and dissociative symptoms, Will can't escape into the safety of his mind. It's no surprise now that he knows who's doing this to him. Who better than a psychiatrist to devise psychological torture?

Hannibal doesn't play the full opera. Even taking into account Will's remedial knowledge of Italian, that would be too pleasant a distraction. It's just  _Il Dolce Suono_  looping over and over. As torture goes, it's…unimaginative. Almost too sloppy for Lecter.

This thought keeps Will grounded as he listens to the twenty-sixth repetition. He refuses to succumb to such simplistic torment.

There's little else to do in this box, though, if succumbing isn't in the cards. He systematically tenses and releases his muscles, trying to work through some of the cramps. He rotates every joint through its maximum range of motion, which is next to nothing. It does very little to help.

Eventually, he listens to the song. He's lost track of the repetitions, but the number is useless anyway without knowing the length of the track. He restarts the count, since there's nothing else to do, but only reaches twenty before the box tips forward. Will yelps as his weight shifts to his pelvis once again. Less surface area, more pain.

The music stops. He tenses in anticipation.

A whiff of fresh air.

“William.”

And there he is, a tailored silhouette in front of overhead lights. The top of the box is open—much more difficult to ascertain than it probably should be—and Will looks up at his captor with tired, bloodshot eyes.

This is his moment, after weeks or months or decades of sensory deprivation, but he can't figure out what to say. The man looming above him is not going to listen to reason. If Will knows anything, he knows psychopathy, and Hannibal Lecter fits the bill. He's ruthless. He has Will completely in his power, and no amount of begging will convince him to give that up.

All he says is, “Hannibal, _why?_ ”

His voice sounds thin and broken. Hannibal doesn't even acknowledge him.

“I will let you out,” he says, tone infuriatingly even. “Sing for me.”

Will blinks. “What?”

“Sing for me, William. If I find it entertaining, I will open the box.”

Will tries and fails to bring the blurry face above him into focus. He hears the words, but lags behind in processing them. Sing—what? Why?

A hinge creaks; his view narrows. “Wait!” He yells, before Hannibal can close the lid all the way. The panel opens again and Hannibal raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

He’s panicking, on the verge of tears, but he has to do _something._ He has to get out of here. “I'll do it,” he says. “Just give me a second.”

Will can't sing. He doesn't try, as a rule, but this is worth the exception. He takes a deep breath.

“ _Il dolce suono…_ ” he warbles. He coughs, clears his throat. His cheeks burn. The song was written for a soprano, which Will most decidedly is not. He sounds broken and desperate. He tries again.

“ _Il dolce suono mi colpì di sua voce,_ ” he sings, blinking back angry tears. “ _Ah, quella voce m'è qui nel cor discesa._ ” Though he can't make out any facial features, he feels Hannibal's eyes tearing him apart.  


“Tsk tsk, William, your pronunciation is atrocious.”

The panel swings shut.

“No! No, NO!” Will screams. “Please, Hannibal! Don't do this, don't leave me here! HANNIBAL!”

Hannibal isn't listening. His pleas trail off into messy, desperate sobbing. He cries and cries and begs for death. The music resumes where it left off.

Will is crushed. The box closes in around him—and on his shoulders, the unbearable weight of helplessness. He’s been clinging to a sliver of hope since this began, but he can't delude himself any longer. This is his life for the foreseeable future.

Here and now, he has three options: incarceration, cooperation, or death. Unfortunately, it's impossible to commit suicide by holding one's breath, so he scrambles for an alternative. Could he smash his head against the wall? No, there's not enough room. His hands are still inaccessible, locked into tight fists. Really, death is not in the cards. 

That leaves two options, and Will can’t withstand another day of this torture. So, voice raw and trembling, he begins to sing along. 

“ _Qui ricovriamo, Edgardo, a piè dell'ara. Sparsa è di rose._ ”

_Let us take refuge here, Edgardo, at the foot of the altar—it is scattered with roses._

~

Hannibal is charming, but it is not the easy, natural charm it purports to be. Every move is carefully calculated for maximum impact. Hannibal is polite, and he gets what he wants.

What he wants is a private flight to Florence, Italy. His connection is an old friend from medical school, Dottore Piero Rosato, a fellow art enthusiast and collector of rare paintings. His private jet is not particularly extravagant, but it is particularly secure, and he's owed Hannibal a favor ever since he managed to procure for him an original Caravaggio after the tragic, untimely death of its previous owner.

Bringing his luggage into the country unmolested is a more difficult task, but Piero has connections and Hannibal has money to burn. Paintings, Hannibal says; of course. Piero understands completely and assures him that his belongings will not be examined as long as the emigration is done by the books. And of course it will be, no problem at all.  _Grazie tante, Piero._

Will Graham is the only remaining variable. 

Hannibal sits upright in the armchair in his study, the box at his feet. He moves it, sometimes, but never while Will is awake. Will has no idea where he is; he's seen nothing but the vaguest suggestion of Hannibal's ceiling. 

The box presents a beautiful duality: Will is with him, but alone. Will relies on him for fulfillment of his every basic need, yet he remains out of sight, ineffective, showing no visible signs of life. In some respects, he might as well be a corpse.

In others, he is very much alive. Corpses cannot feel pain; certainly they cannot suffer so beautifully. 

When Hannibal next opens the box only four hours have passed, but to Will it must seem an eternity, trapped as he is with nothing but Lucia's beautiful soprano for company. Hannibal picked the song for its difficult vocal track, but also because he couldn't resist a bit of tongue-in-cheek. In  _Il Dolce Suono_ , fragile Lucia descends into madness and stabs her betrothed on their wedding day. Lost in her diseased mind, she is unaware of what she has done and wanders into the Great Hall, believing she has married her true love, Edgardo.

The opera holds personal significance for Will. It was the first production they attended together. Hannibal has not yet decided if it will be the last.

He stops the music, slides off the soundproofing sheath, unlocks four industrial padlocks. He pauses, hand on the latch, and raps his knuckles on the tinted plastic.

The reaction is not quite what he was hoping for: just a sharp intake of breath, a sound repressed in Will's throat. Not to worry. There will be plenty of time to chip away at that remaining stubbornness.

“I hope for your sake that you have improved your vibrato,” Hannibal says, sliding the top panel open. Will doesn't dare retort. He nods as much as the box allows. Though he’s well fed, for the moment, he has the desperate eyes of a starving man. Hannibal is far too familiar with the expression.

“Begin.”

Will knows what’s expected of him, but there is still a moment of hesitation, a twinge of that learned defiance that stands between Hannibal and Will's crumbling self-respect.

Only a moment. Then he clears his throat and, sad eyes trained on Hannibal, starts to sing.

 _Il Dolce Suono_  is renowned for being technically and expressively demanding, and asking an untrained alto to perform it is cruel and unusual. Will has awkwardly transposed it several octaves lower. It's butchery, pure and simple.

Hannibal remains silent and motionless for the entire six-minute track, keeping his expression carefully neutral, and when it's over, he savors the moment. He is the most important thing in Will's life. His word holds absolute power. Will looks up at him with panting anticipation.

But he is not unjust, and they could spend weeks on the track without making progress. It's a Sisyphean task. Besides, he has to open the box sometime today. Their flight is tomorrow, and he needs to prepare.  


“You've shown marked improvement,” he lies. “I’m willing to release you under a few conditions.”

“Th-thank you.”

Hannibal traces the edge of the box with two fingers, inches away from Will's face, never touching. “The first condition: you will not leave my sight without permission. I take it you’ve seen the storm drain in my wine cellar?”

Will nods.

“Good, then you know it’s a rather tight fit,” Hannibal says. “If you make any attempt to escape or alert the authorities, I’ll put you back in the box and lower it into the drain, and then I will bury you under eight feet of poured concrete. I'll leave you with feeding and breathing tubes to prolong your life. The human body is resilient—I suspect you could survive several months under those conditions.”

Will is appropriately horrified. It is an empty threat, of course—he would never allow Will's body to go to waste like that—but it's enough to ensure compliance.

“I would prefer not to kill you,” he says. “Please, do not force my hand.”

Will nods again, emphatic. “I swear.”

“The second condition: you will treat me with courtesy and respect, which I shall return. Our relationship has changed, but I still consider you my friend.” Will squints at this but says nothing out of self-preservation. “The third condition: you will not withhold your thoughts from me. Therapy will continue as usual. Is this acceptable?”

Will nods without hesitation. At this point, he would consent to a lobotomy in exchange for five minutes to stretch his legs.

“Excellent,” says Hannibal. “Please, remain still while I release you.”

~

Will has only tried to kill himself once. He was drunk and hadn't slept in four days and couldn't shut his brain off no matter how hard he tried, so he washed down a full bottle of Valium with a double shot of Jack Daniel's and waited to die.

Curled up on his side on a sweat-soaked bed, listening to the dogs snoring in the other room, he imagines he’s on a raft drifting out to sea, watching the stars flicker in and out of the clouds.

He leaves a note taped to his front door, because it seems like the proper thing to do. It says:  
 

> I've outstayed my welcome. I'm sorry I can't help the Ripper investigation any further. Jack, please don't think you pushed me into this. It's been coming for a long time.
> 
> Make sure the dogs go to good homes. Try to keep them together. I set out food and water but they'll probably be hungry by the time you read this, so make sure you feed them as soon as you can. The key to the house is in the mailbox. Dump my ashes in the Chesapeake Bay.
> 
> Will

It’s not enough. He could make a phone call—but no, if he calls Hannibal, he’ll show up uninvited and ruin the whole thing. He has to be subtle. He tears apart his room looking for that book he lent him, rewrites his note on the dedication page.

Still too obvious. He blacks out the dedication. Better. Hannibal will still know.

Then a few words, written in numbers, at the bottom of the page. He tacks it to the front door. The familiar benzodiazepine haze blurs the edges of objects and actions, eats away at his short-term memory. Pen and paper, brick hearth, fireplace ash caked under his fingernails. Still not enough, still so much more he wants to say, but it will have to do. He can't keep his eyes open any longer.

He awakens to the dogs howling and whining, sensing something the matter. His pillow is covered in Valium-blue vomit. He throws out the pillow, feeds the dogs, rushes in to work three hours late, takes the usual flack from Crawford and everybody else.  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry; my alarm didn't go off._  Don't make eye contact.

God, he was so close.

If he'd just remembered to lay on his back, he would have choked to death in his sleep. Instead he's stuck with a pounding headache, an empty bottle of sleeping pills, and a month of sleepless nights ahead of him.

To add insult to injury, Alana confronts him after his lecture that afternoon.

“Outstayed your welcome,” she says, casually leaning against his desk. She crosses her ankles, one black pump in front of its partner.

He takes a moment to choose the right words. “I was…confused last night.”

Alana smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “That didn't sound like confusion to me.”

Will turns away from her, takes two steps toward the projector. It's hard to breathe with her in his space like this. “I forgot to take it down.”

“Yes,” she says gently. “I went on my lunch break to check up on you. I was just…concerned. You hadn't showed up to work. But you weren't at your house either. It's probably a good thing I called Jack as soon as I read it, or you'd have to pay to replace that door.” She smiles at her own joke; he can't see it but he can hear it in her voice, and it makes him want to smile back.

He doesn't. He turns to face her, no eye contact. “Jack knows?”

“No. I told him I was concerned about you, and he told me that you showed up late. Overslept. We left it there,” says Alana.

“Don't tell Jack.”

“Will—”

“ _Please_ , Alana,” he says, meeting her eyes for a second. “He's under so much pressure as it is. He doesn't need this. I don't need to have another conversation with him about my mental health. Promise me. Promise you won't say anything to anybody.”

She nods once. “I'll promise, but only if you promise you  _will_  tell Hannibal.”

“I will,” he says. He sighs, combs a hand through his hair. “I was reckless. I should have remembered to take the note down.”

“I'm glad you didn't.”

Their eyes meet for a fleeting moment. He feels a flicker of something he shouldn't. Not something affectionate. He looks away.

“I'm glad you're still here,” she presses. “My heart  _stopped_  when I read that note, Will. I don't know what we would do—what I would do. Without you. I know you don't like it when people worry about you, but I think you need more help than you're getting.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he says. “I really do. But last night was a temporary lapse in judgment. It's not going to happen again.”

“I want to believe that.”

“Then believe it,” he says. “I don't have any reason to lie to you. I'm already getting plenty of help.”

She nods. She's trying to keep it casual, but a little bit of her professional demeanor shines through anyway. “I don't think you're lying to me,” she says. “I think your brain is a little bit unpredictable. That's not a bad thing—it's what makes you so good at what you do—but sometimes it can take you to dark places.”

“Dark places,” he scoffs. “Don't patronize me, Alana. What is dark, in your professional opinion? Dark like drinking whisky in the shower? Or dark like gutting you on this desk and stretching your intestinal lining over the projector lamp, so we can see your capillaries close up?”

That's what he wants to say. What he says is:

“If you don't trust me on this, trust Doctor Lecter. He knows where my mind takes me. He makes sure I always come back.”

“Is he the reason you stopped last night?”

He looks her in the eye, willing himself to keep his gaze steady.

He didn't stop. He's still not entirely convinced that he failed.

Will smiles. He says, “I think our thirty minutes are up, Doctor Bloom.”

She doesn't push him; she pushes her weight up off the desk and takes a few steps backward toward the door, trying to get a final read on him.  _Read your heart out, Alana. I'm an open book._

She says, “Take care of yourself, Will.”

~

Unfolding his body does not feel nearly as good as he anticipated. His lower back twists into knots as Hannibal finally removes his legs from behind his head, and he lies naked on the lush carpet, too sore to move, too humiliated to speak. All he can do is breathe, in until his lungs are bursting, out until his brain is starved for oxygen. It's the only way to keep the pain under control.  
“Some pain is to be expected,” Hannibal says, unlocking the leather mittens. He makes no move to remove the IV, and neither does Will. “Your muscles have lost elasticity after spending so much time in a stress position. I can help the pain, if you do something for me.”

Will looks at him with weary eyes and says nothing, awaiting the offer.

“Another dose of morphine,” he says, “in exchange for your company at my table.”

Disoriented as he is, Will's brain registers only the word 'morphine,' and he finds himself nodding in agreement before he fully understands what he’s agreeing to. Then Hannibal inserts his syringe into the IV port, and it's too late. That's what he tells himself.

There is a moment of stillness between the port and Will's arm, between Will's arm and his heart—his eyes meet Hannibal's for a count of one, two—and then the rush. It's a crescendo of warmth, like bath water rippling out from his chest. It builds and builds until the pleasure is almost painful. He lets out an involuntary groan and his eyes flicker shut.

“Tell me how you feel,” Hannibal says, finger-combing Will's tangles with a paradoxical air of clinical detachment. It’s been so long since anyone touched him that he can’t help pressing closer.

“ _Oh,_ ” is all Will can manage. His head is fuzzy with euphoria. “ _Good._ ”

“Good?” Hannibal prompts.

Will cracks his eyelids just enough to make out his outline. “Feels warm,” he says. “Like lying by the window on a sunny day. No pain.”

Hannibal flashes an indulgent smile as he winds Will's sweaty hair around his fist and _yanks._ Will's head snaps back, exposing the pale column of his throat, but the only sound he makes is a soft sigh. Satisfied, Hannibal stands. He does something unimportant with the IV port, flushes it or closes it or something. It's all the same to Will.

“Let's get you cleaned up for dinner,” he says. “Are you able to stand?”

To Will's surprise, he is. Hannibal hoists him up and supports his weight on the fuzzy walk to the master bathroom, and the IV stand rolls along at his side like a guardian angel. Eyelids heavy, he shuffles over the threshold and onto cool tile.

Hannibal pushes him to his knees on the bath mat. He doesn't even think to resist. As Hannibal fills the tub, he runs his hands over the luxurious fabric and wonders how much it cost. The thought is so utterly irrelevant that it makes him smile. 

Their conjoined hands dip into the warm water. “Is this temperature comfortable?”

Will nods dreamily. He climbs in without being prompted, and it's like the rush all over again, pure animal pleasure short circuiting his brain. Hannibal catches his other hand before it reaches the surface—the IV line is still inserted—and holds it suspended for a moment before resting it on the side of the tub.

He relishes the tranquility, eyes closed, up to his chin in the heat. Hannibal lathers shampoo into his hair with firm, steady hands.

They don't speak. It's a gentle silence, a pocket of warmth safe from winter's chill. He thinks back to his little house on the moor, acres of quiet underbrush surrounding it, meadow peppered with wildflowers.

No flowers this time of year. Soon the ground is going to freeze.

~

He is dressed, dried, groomed and shaven, all without an instant of privacy. He's detached from the tether of the IV line. As the drug wears off he becomes more aware of his surroundings, and his face reddens now when Hannibal looks at him naked.

“A traditional English wool,” Hannibal says, slipping the charcoal gray dinner jacket over Will's shoulders. “Simplicity is more to your taste, is it not?”

“It's much better than the last time you put me in a suit,” says Will. He's just glad to be clothed again.

“Ah, but the opera is a formal affair. It calls for a higher standard of dress.”

Will rolls his shoulders, in part to get used to the suit but mostly because he wasn't allowed to for so long. “This isn't formal?”

“A dinner between friends. Hardly an occasion. It happens all the time.”

Will spins to face him. This is the largest walk-in closet he has ever seen, and yet Hannibal imposes himself entirely into Will's personal space. He scans him up and down—impeccable hygiene and presentation—and sees the filth inside. “This will be the first solid food I've eaten in weeks,” he says.

Hannibal takes pause, a barely perceptible quirk of his eyebrow.

Will shrugs. “But don't change the dress code on my account.”

~

They both know he can’t run. He wouldn’t make it out of the kitchen.

He could hold himself on edge, wait for the opportunity to strike or flee, but what good would it do? Hannibal is also poised, and his edge is much sharper.

So, on the placid surface, their relationship remains unchanged. This is what Will knows how to do. He leans against the counter and watches Hannibal caramelize shallots with the same precision he would afford an appendectomy.

“ _Bavette à la Bordelaise,_ ” he says, without diverting his eyes from the pan. “Skirt steak and shallots in a cabernet sauvignon jus.”

“Whose skirt steak are we eating?” Will asks, cracking his neck—god, that feels good.

Hannibal gives him a sharp look. “I will not tolerate impudence in my kitchen.”

He wants say something sarcastic in return, but not as much as he wants to avoid becoming skirt steak. He averts his gaze mumbles a half-hearted apology.

Hannibal drains the meat juices into the pan and spoons shallots over the steak before sliding the entire dish into the oven. He tosses watercress and olive oil in a salad bowl. “Bordelaise is a traditional French sauce made with bone marrow and red wine,” he says. “It takes its name from the Bordeaux region of France, which produces the finest cabernet sauvignon in the world.”

“Doctor Lecter,” he says, quiet like he’s addressing a sleeping grizzly bear. “I’m looking forward to the meal, but can we—”

“Are you?”

Hannibal crosses the kitchen and stops about six inches too close to him, unarmed but unreadable. Will once found the calculated grace of his stride to be elegant.

He chooses his words carefully. “I’m hungry. I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve fed me one of my cases.”

“But you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re looking forward to it.”

“No,” Will admits. “I just know it’s going to happen anyway.”

“Perceptive,” Hannibal says with a twitch of his lips. “Excuse my interruption. What did you want to ask me?”

“Can we…um.” He can barely think at this distance. His sympathetic nervous system is on high alert, but fight and flight are both off the table. “Can we talk about what’s going on?”

“I’m cooking for you.”

“You know what I mean. Why am I here?”

“I could ask myself the same question, and would find the answer similarly unsatisfying. Determining my motives is no longer your responsibility.”

Will sighs. “Did I get too close? Because from where I’m standing, it seems like I was still miles away. You were never a suspect.”

“Will,” he says, gentle but firm. “You’re out of your jurisdiction. While you are here, your only job is to listen to me and do what I say.”

“So it wasn’t that?”

He steps closer; his fingers slip under Will’s shirt cuff and he squeezes until the bones in his wrist grind together, until he feels the inevitable bruise germinating just under the skin. “It wasn’t that,” he murmurs. “No more questions.”

Will’s face goes hot and he ducks his head. No eye contact, not now and never again. He’s afraid Hannibal can drain the marrow from his bones with a look.

After a moment, he releases Will’s wrist. “Sit down,” he says. “I’m not going to kill you tonight.”

Will sits at the island and silently watches him cook. He’s just taking the meat out of the oven when the phone rings. 

Hannibal freezes, sets the tray on the stovetop, and pulls his cell out of his pocket. His finger hovers over the intercom button. He turns to Will. In his coolest, most matter-of-fact tone, he says:

“William, if you make a sound—if you so much as breathe too loudly—I will surgically disconnect your lower intestine and suture it to your mouth. Do you understand?”

Will nods, stricken. Hannibal presses the button.

“Doctor Lecter speaking.”

“Hannibal, it's Jack. Where are you right now?”

His eyebrows dip. “In Baltimore, preparing dinner. I could ask the same of you; this isn't your cellphone number.”

Jack is unfazed. “Thank god, I thought your flight might have left already. I'm calling from a land line—listen, I'm sorry to do this, but we need you to drop what you're doing and drive to Wolf Trap. There's been a development in Will Graham's case.”

His lips thin and he turns to Will, eyes smoldering, nostrils flared, but his voice remains carefully unperturbed. “That will be difficult; it will take me at least an hour, and I have a roast in the oven. Can I assist you over the phone?”

“Forget the roast,” Jack says. Will can practically hear him roll his eyes. “We might have found him, but we need you here. He could be alive, Hannibal.”

Hannibal sighs noiselessly and pinches the bridge of his nose. It's the closest Will's ever seen him to losing his composure.

There is a moment of silence.

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, I'm here. I'll be there as soon as I can.” He ends the call before Jack can respond. Will realizes, too late, that he just wasted what might be his only shot at freedom. A test which he takes no pride in passing.

He braces himself against the counter, prepared to dodge a strike if need be. “Doctor Lecter, you've been watching me this whole time. I didn't—”

“Quiet,” Hannibal says. He picks up the unused steak knife. “We're going to the basement.”

Will doesn't dare speak, but he hesitates.

Hannibal takes this as obstinance. “ _Now,_ ” he barks, brandishing the knife.

He is acutely aware of the cold steel at his back as he descends both sets of stairs, first to the wine cellar and then to the hidden sub-basement. All Will can think about is the box, and the storm drain, and his own corpse festering under eight feet of poured concrete. He's sick with fear.

But there is no box under the wine cellar. Among the horrifying instruments of butchery—and he doesn't allow his eyes to linger—sits a wheelchair.

It's bulky, made of chrome and white leather, clearly not designed for mobility. Quite the opposite. Dozens of unbuckled Nylon straps form a sinister frame around the seat, like something from a horror movie.

He glances over his shoulder to see Hannibal silhouetted in the light from the kitchen above. “Please don't put me in that. I won't leave the house, please don't—”

“Stop begging; you sound pathetic,” he snaps. Will falls silent. “Sit in the chair.”

He can either obey or get stabbed, so he sits in the chair. The leather is cold, even through his wool dress pants.

Hannibal presses the blade to Will's cheek, not cutting but letting him feel the sharp edge, and then sets it on the shelf, within arm's reach. He removes Will's jacket and buckles the first strap across his shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. Will remains silent as he's anchored down.

Ties at the waist, shoulders, shins, and forearms would be plenty, but Hannibal is determined to strip him of voluntary movement, so they also encircle his feet, calves, upper thighs, and lower torso. He can only flex his fingers and turn his neck, and then Hannibal buckles another strap across Will's forehead, and he can’t even do that. He pulls it all the way to the last hole in the strap. A migraine in the making.

“Please, Doctor, not so tight. I can't move.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, but he loosens the belt by one notch. He disappears behind the chair once more, and Will can only follow him with his eyes. There's a metallic click, and then the chair reclines and Hannibal is staring into him, soaking up the fear. He closes his eyes.

“I'm afraid you’ll have to dine without me tonight.”

The stairs creak, the door glides shut on well-oiled hinges, and Will is left in complete darkness.

“Hannibal?” He asks after a moment. No response, not even a slight squeak from the floorboards above. The cellar is heavily insulated. He could scream until his throat bled and be heard faintly in the kitchen, if at all.

He fears for a moment that Hannibal isn't coming back, but when the door opens again, he immediately wishes he'd left for good. He's holding a huge glass pitcher of something reddish-brown, the consistency of thick porridge.

“I hoped it wouldn't come to this,” Hannibal says, rounding the chair to retrieve something from the shelf behind. “It’s an appalling waste of a good meal, but at least you'll eat it fresh.”

Will groans. No words will dissuade him.

“Since I can’t join you, you'll be eating both of our portions. Open wide.”  
He presses smooth black rubber against Will's mouth, which instinctively clamps shut.

Hannibal backhands him across the face so hard his ears ring and his vision goes fuzzy. Will yelps, and he takes the opportunity to work the tube in past his teeth.

“Nng— _augh!_ ” He chokes; thick saliva drips from the corners of his mouth, but Hannibal doesn't relent. He elevates Will's chin and slides the tube deeper into his vulnerable throat.

“I could do this gently,” Hannibal says, “if you'd learn to listen. Now— _shh,_ hush William, swallow for me. Keep swallowing.”

Will swallows, but it does nothing to ease the discomfort of having a huge hunk of rubber shoved down his digestive tract. He works the tube deeper than he thought possible, down his esophagus and past his diaphragm, all the way into his stomach. A wave of nausea slams into him and leaves him breathless. He gags, sure he's going to vomit, but nothing happens.

His screams are reduced to terrified gurgles. His stomach spasms, trying to force out the invader, but it’s not going anywhere. The bulky device stretches his insides. Burning pain floods parts of him he didn’t even know had nerve endings. No release from the nausea.

He cries so hard that he can't breathe through his nose, and it only takes a few seconds for this to trigger a panic attack. He is _dying._

“No need to be so melodramatic,” he says. “Do you want to breathe?”

He wails. It sounds inhuman even to his own ears.

Hannibal slips another, much thinner tube a few centimeters into Will's nostril. Not far enough in to give him air. He thrusts it shallowly in and out in some twisted parody of intercourse. “Beg for it, if you really want it."

Tears and mucous drip down Will's face in equal measure. He stops making sound, because his lungs are empty. Each failed attempt at speech sets off another spasm in his esophagus.

“You’re right, that’s unfair,” Hannibal concedes. He slips the tube in a little further, then rotates it a hundred and eighty degrees, and it slides home into Will's trachea. Sweet oxygen floods his brain. He sucks in as much air as he can through the tiny opening, and doesn't resist as Hannibal fills his other nostril with hard plastic.

“Almost finished,” he says. Using a plastic applicator, he spreads cold, clear gel around Will's nostrils and presses the lip of each tube flush against the skin. He holds them in place for several seconds. “This is a mild surgical adhesive, to keep you from expelling the breathing tubes. If you're dead when I get home, I will be very unhappy.”

Will’s eyes narrow. He wishes he felt the same.

Finally, he screws the open end of the gastric tube into the port of what looks like a giant IV bag, which he hangs on a metal stand. Will has no choice but to watch as he adjusts the release valve, opens the bag, and pours in dinner in its pureed entirety. It fills the bag all the way to the top.

“This is two and a half liters, and it should take about three hours drain into your stomach. A slow pace, so you will have time to absorb it.”

He tries once more to scream—for what purpose, he doesn't know—but it's inaudible.

“The human stomach can hold three to four liters at maximum capacity, so you will feel very full, but rest assured, you aren't going to pop.”

And he leaves Will alone, flipping off the light on his way out.

~

“Does the number 24417.23 mean anything to you?”

Hannibal closes his car door and buttons the second button on his jacket. “No,” he says, “at least not without context.”

“What about 18751.14?” True to form, Crawford pounces on him the moment he arrives at the scene. An hour's drive and this is the thanks he gets.

Jack looks harrowed. He buries his hands in his coat pockets but he's still cold; he won't put his hood up because he thinks it makes him look less respectable. Something about the way he carries his weight, the backward thrust of his shoulders, suggests expectation—a spark; a tongue of flame. Hope.

“I'm afraid not,” Hannibal says. He waits politely for the explanation he knows will follow.

“That's alright, it was a long shot. I want you to come have a look at this and tell me what you think.” Hannibal dutifully follows him across the frozen field, toward the house. “We turned up a note that Will wrote about a week before he disappeared. Dr. Bloom had it this whole time, but she thought it 'wasn't relevant'…that, and Will made her promise not to show me.” His lip curls.

“These are desperate circumstances,” Hannibal says. “Broken promises can be repaired.” It's impossibly easy to tell him what he wants to hear.

Jack ushers him over the threshold into Will's home, shutting the door behind them. The house smells cold and deserted, full of the living but devoid of life. Entering someone's home uninvited is an intensely private affair—Hannibal knows; he is a frequent visitor here. No time for the occupant to trim or tailor. Dishes sit abandoned in the sink; ash litters the hearth.

Beverly Katz and Alana Bloom sit at Will's dining table. While Jack occupies the space as if he owns it, they are more reverent. Beverly sits on the edge of the chair; her elbow rests on the edge of the table. She stands when he enters the room.

“Hannibal.” She smiles. “It's good to see you. Thanks for driving all the way out here.”

“Anything I can do to help.”

“Maybe you can help me decipher this note,” she says, gesturing to the table. “Dr. Bloom submitted it as evidence this morning. Will made her swear to secrecy or something.”

“He was adamant that I keep it to myself,” Alana confirms.

“He wrote it eight or nine days before he was kidnapped, depending on whether the actual abduction happened on Friday or Saturday.”

“Are we so sure it was an abduction?” Hannibal asks.

She grimaces. “He could have done this to himself—we can't rule out that possibility—but I know Will. If he were going to commit suicide, he wouldn’t just disappear. We would have a body.”

“Suicide?”

“Yeah.” Beverly sighs. “Read the note.”

His eyes skim the familiar peaks and valleys of Will's carelessly messy handwriting. The slant of the letters is desperate, volatile; the diction is harsh and abrupt. He was high on adrenaline when he wrote this.

“I've outstayed my welcome,” Hannibal repeats softly. Beverly and Jack both look down for a moment, unable to face this reality that Will has crafted for them. “What are these numbers at the bottom?”

“We're not a hundred percent on that yet, but I think it's a book cipher. The note is written on a page torn from a book.”

Clever, his Will. He's written a coded message, and Hannibal thinks he knows who for.

Jack steps forward, into Beverly's space, which she yields. “Can you identify the book?” He asks Hannibal.

Of course he can. The smell of the parchment indicates it's one of the volumes of poetry he lent Will. Three centered lines suggest a dedication page, and though they are blacked out with marker, a few sparse accents hover above the obscured letters, signaling Spanish or Italian. Will can't read Spanish. That leaves two volumes, one of which has only a hundred and ten pages. Since the digits of the first number reference page 244, it must be the longer of the two.

“I cannot say with certainty. I might need some time,” Hannibal says. “Could I perhaps inspect Will's bookshelf?”

“Be my guest,” says Crawford.

Though this matter could have been easily addressed with a camera phone, it’s proven itself to be a serendipitous opportunity to invade Will's privacy. In therapy, he suggested several times that Will keep a dream journal, since his dreams often trouble him. Will was never receptive to the idea, so Hannibal eventually stopped insisting—and yet there it is, a moleskin notebook on his top shelf, fruit ripe for the picking.

He opens it in the course of opening several other books, naturally and with the same careless grace he affords the rest, but he memorizes every word. There are only a handful of entries. One in particular catches his attention. The handwriting is particularly illegible, an outpouring of fear so raw Hannibal can almost taste it.

> Dreamt I was drowning again. Alone at sea. Wind picks up, waves crash into the hull. Sail billows, boat overbalances, and I slip into the freezing water. I sink deeper, colder, until the surface is just a shimmer of light above me. Last burst of strength. I claw my way back into the open air, but can barely keep my head above the water. I struggle toward the boat but it floats away. The gap widens, my muscles weaken, but I struggle. Keep my head above the water. Keep moving.
> 
> Waves toss my body around. I can't tell which way is up. I exhale, don't want to but I can't stop it. I try to follow the bubbles to the surface but my arms are made of lead. Body is so heavy, clothes drag in the current. I struggle out of them but I'm still not light enough. Can't do anything but watch the fabric sink out of sight. Everything is water. Water burns my sinuses. Water floods my lungs. At the mercy of the tide.

Hannibal thumbs through the rest of the book. The last entry is dated three months ago. Will is not very good at following instructions, it seems. He shuts the journal and replaces it. Finally he opens the poetry book.

“Here,” he says, pointing to the first page. “This collection is missing the dedication. It's a clean cut, so it would be easy to overlook.” Hannibal thinks they're idiots for not checking the dedication of every book on the shelf before consulting him. There are only thirty-four.

“You're positive this is it?” Jack asks.

“Not positive,” Hannibal says, “but give me pen and paper and I will see if the numbers correspond.”

Alana is quick to pass him her note pad. She's guilty, that much is obvious, and thinks she needs to atone for thoughtlessly keeping the suicide note to herself.

Hannibal sits in an empty chair. He's shared meals at this table before, but won't eat here again. The grief is unexpected.

24417.23—page two hundred forty-four, line seventeen, twenty-third word:  _cercare_. There are only three numbers, so it takes all of five minutes to decipher the code.

“ _Cercare il camino,_ ” Hannibal says. “Search the chimney.”

Beverly is pulling on gloves before he's even finished his sentence. “So stupid,” she mutters to herself, voice echoing in the brick fireplace. “I can't believe we didn't catch this.”

“What is it?” Alana asks, craning her neck to get a better look.

She reaches up the chimney all the way to her shoulder, and extracts another note. It's folded several times—not a book page, just a scrap of typing paper. On the outside, in Will's messy cursive, it says  _Hannibal._ He doesn't have to be told to don his own gloves before accepting it.

Time slows as Hannibal skims the letter. He has to read it a second time to be sure his eyes aren't deceiving him—but no, the words are there on the paper, a frantic scribble. A confession. This is ammunition, live and volatile. All he needs now is a spark.

~

Will only spends about fifteen minutes sobbing. He learned his lesson in the box—crying will get him nowhere and makes his head hurt, so he stops as soon as he's able. Next comes a short period of shock, followed by a painful return to awareness.

Morphine has a half-life of twelve hours or more. This terrifies him. It's been about four hours since his last dose, and his entire body is already permeated by a dull ache, worsening every minute. He wants to die—god, he wants to choke on this fucking tube and _die_ ; he wills his stubborn respiratory system to just give up already—but of course it doesn't happen.

The sludge drips into him at an agonizingly slow pace. It's a sickening weight gathering in his belly, the food and the knowledge of its origin. He tells himself it's not his fault. He didn't kill this meat. He isn't eating it voluntarily.

But does it matter?

It contaminates him. He can taste it in the back of his throat, spiced and bloody and rare.  


There's no way Hannibal got three liters of sludge out of two portions of steak and vegetables. He must have added a thickening agent, maybe oatmeal or, god forbid, bone meal. He vomits again, or tries to. Just a series of involuntary contractions and the slight burn of stomach acid.

He measures time by watching the bag drain. If it's supposed to take three hours, then an hour has passed when it's a third of the way empty. By the halfway point he's trembling and sweating with nausea. At two thirds, the cramps set in.

Fuck Hannibal and his medical degree. Any moment now something inside him will rupture, he's sure of it, and he'll die of—what, toxic shock? But nothing ruptures; nothing pops. The bag drains into him with terrible indifference, and he's powerless to stop it.

Hannibal. Hannibal Lecter, his fucking psychiatrist. This was never supposed to happen.

He's swallowed most of the mixture when a new, sharper pain tingles through his abdomen. At first it's difficult to distinguish from the agonizing cramps, but it grows into a distinct entity, a bright restlessness worsening the insufferable pressure in his guts.

It's absurd that in the midst of literal torture, all Will can think is  _please, don't let me piss myself._

The bag is empty, so Hannibal has been gone for at least three hours. That's forty-five minutes there, forty-five minutes back, if he's speeding, which Will prays he is, and one and a half hours at the crime scene. How long can it possibly take? What fucking  _evidence_  has Jack turned up?

It's unlikely Hannibal will return before it happens, but that doesn't stop Will from clenching his pelvic floor muscles and resolving to hold it as long as he can. It's the only way he can fight back.

~

The contents of this letter were intended for Hannibal's eyes only. This was a gross miscalculation on Will's part.

Of course Jack would investigate his suicide; he must have known that, which means that when he wrote this, he was counting on Hannibal either discovering the note on his own or bluffing for him. He thought these words would be his final contact with the human world. To read them aloud would be to betray Will's trust—to humiliate him in front of his friends, to amputate his support networks like so much gangrenous tissue. A devastating blow to his psyche.

“I'm afraid this is not about his disappearance,” Hannibal says. Their eyes are on him: Jack, Beverly, Alana, all suspended between hope and despair, hinged on his word.

“Then what  _is_  it about?” Jack snaps.

“It’s…of a personal nature,” he says. He forces down the cold glee bubbling in his chest. “Shall I read it verbatim?”

Jack nods impatiently. Hannibal clears his throat.  
 

> "Dear Dr. Lecter,
> 
> You may think that as my therapist, you were in a position to prevent my death. I'm writing this because I want you to know there's nothing you could have done to stop me.
> 
> Recently, I've become a threat to myself and others. I fantasize about committing murder every day now, in gruesome detail. These aren't just invasive thoughts, or hallucinations. They're plans. They used to be limited to the patterns of the killers I study, but since I started tracking the Ripper, I've been generating the fantasies on my own. They're more brutal than the cases I'm working and more frequent than what my job requires. I don't know where they come from, or why, but every day I'm more inclined to act on them. I know you'll think you could have helped me through this, but you're wrong. Our sessions aren't helping anymore. They might be making things worse.”

Hannibal pauses here, but a sharp look from Jack urges him forward.  


> “I have feelings for you that are inappropriate for a patient to have toward his therapist. I don't know why. Maybe it's just another excuse for my brain to sabotage my recovery. It doesn't matter either way.
> 
> If this makes you miss me, don't. I also want to kill you, more than I've wanted to kill anybody before. When we're sitting across from each other in your office, can you tell that I'm imagining how good it would feel? I'd make it slow, slit your wrists across the vein, and we could sit together for hours and talk as I bleed you dry. You understand the value of courtesy better than anybody I know. I like to think we could have a productive final session.
> 
> Don't honor my memory. The only thing you can do for me now is catch the killer who started this.
> 
> Yours,  
>  Will”

There's a moment of silence, nobody sure how to react. Then Jack speaks, slowly and without inflection. “Is that all it says?”

He hands over the paper, which Jack skims. Even Alana's face has drained of color. He only wishes Will were here to see this—they'll never be able to look him in the eye again, if he still has eyes by the time they next see him.

Hannibal smiles.

“I'm sorry to make you drive all the way out here in the snow,” Jack says, ushering him to his car.

“Barely an inch of snow. A small price to pay to assure the safety of a friend, though I regret to say that Will's safety may be in jeopardy.”

“Will's not the only one in jeopardy,” Jack says, mouth pulling tight. “Listen, Hannibal, you know I wouldn't ask you this if I didn't think it was absolutely necessary. I need you to postpone your vacation.”

Hannibal's rage shows only in a tightening of the skin around his eyes. “I'm afraid that will be impossible,” he says.

Jack raises his voice, ever the alpha male. “If Will is alive right now, he may have killed already. And if he hasn't, Hannibal, we have  _one_  lead. You.”

One hand frozen on the car door handle, the other balled tightly at his side, Hannibal asks, “Am I under arrest, Jack?”

“ _What?_ ” Jack spits. “No. No, of course not. But you're the only link we have to him—if you leave, people will die.”

Hannibal takes a deep breath, and then he says, “I will see what I can arrange.” He shakes Jack's hand and gets in the car.

~

Hannibal is a difficult man to anger, but nothing irritates him more than a well-laid plan foiled by stupidity. Jack's little plea for help was just code — “you're the only link we have to him” is the most polite phrasing of  _you're our only suspect._ Nothing would look more suspicious now than a well-timed escape to the Italian countryside.

But there will be plenty of time to get even with Jack. Until then, the honeymoon will simply have to wait. He always has a backup plan.

His heart skips a beat as he opens the door to the wine cellar, a physiological response which suggests that Will is somehow vastly different from his previous victims. He suffers, immobilized right where Hannibal left him, impaled like an insect on a cork board. He no longer tries to support his own weight. He sags in the chair and lets the straps take care of the rest.

Will’s eyes flicker toward him as soon as he opens the door. He makes a point to stay just outside his field of vision, so he has to strain for a glimpse. With brisk purpose he rounds the chair and sets to work on the straps. Will hasn't wet himself yet. His mastery over his bladder is a low level miracle.

Hannibal strokes his face, pleased when he flinches away. “It seems you haven't enjoyed your meal,” he says. “Was it the orange zest in the marinade, do you think? I'll admit it was a daring departure from tradition.”

Will doesn't even grace this with a mumble. Ungrateful.

“I'm untying you,” he says, all warmth fleeing his voice, “but I'd like to remind you of your position. I expect you to cooperate completely, and that means remaining still while I remove the feeding apparatus.” Will isn't going to fight it, he knows, but it's important to keep him in his place.

First he releases the adhesive and slides out the nasal tubes. Now he’s on the clock, so he wastes no time unbuckling the straps. Will doesn’t move.

“This will be uncomfortable, but I need you to be strong and control your gag reflex. I'm going to deflate the tube and pull it out in one quick motion.”

Even with the warning, Will is unprepared for the excruciating removal—like having his insides yanked out through his mouth, or so Hannibal has been told. He yelps around the invading rubber, and then coughs violently the moment it passes his lips. This is why Hannibal untied him first.

“There’s a drain in the floor to your right.” Will is on his hands and knees as soon as the words leave his mouth. “I do not want you to vomit,” he lies. “You should be gracious that I'm feeding you at all, and rest assured, you'll pay for every drop you waste.”

He watches with detached amusement as Will fights his gag reflex, eyes watering. He struggles for a good thirty seconds—he swallows over and over again, arms crossed protectively over his stomach—but there's no beating human biology. His body heaves forward and he empties himself into the drain, groaning in despair. Once, twice; he stops, tries to fight it back again, keep it down. No such luck.

Hannibal waits to see if there's more coming, but it seems to be over. He only vomited up about an eighth of what he ingested. A better retention ratio than expected.

“All done?” He asks. 

He crouches down to Will's level, grabs a fistful of dirty, sweaty hair, and yanks his head back so far that he's forced to kneel up. He visibly resists the instinct to claw at Hannibal's arm, hands clenching uselessly in his lap. “Is that all?” Hannibal asks again. “Or would you like to waste some more prime-cut steak? I must admit, William, it offends me that you find my cooking so atrocious.”

“I'm s-sorry,” Will croaks, spit dripping down his chin. “P-please, it was an accident.”

“You've gotten this far, so we might as well finish the job. I suppose it's for the best. Morphine slows digestion, so in the long run it will be easier if you vomit it all.”

“Please,” Will whimpers, “I don't want to— _hnng!_ ”

He assumes the Heimlich position, and with a quick jab below Will's ribcage, forces him to vomit again.

“ _No,_ ” he gasps, sputtering. “Don't, please stop—”

“You'll thank me for this later,” Hannibal says. Will is preoccupied, and can't respond.

It's a grueling, disgusting process. He squeezes and prods at Will's stomach until he's consistently dry heaving, and then finally lets him slump to the ground, spent.

He's exhausted, in pain; he'd accept most anything Hannibal could subject him to right now. While his ruination is beautiful in its way, Hannibal prefers him fighting. He wants to see the hatred in Will's eyes.

“H- Doctor Lecter,” he says, voice weak and trembling. “I need, ah, need the bathroom.”

Hannibal shows no emotion. “Are you telling me you need to piss?”

He flinches at the word. Hannibal isn’t generally fond of profanity, which makes it all the more biting.

“If you need something, you have to ask politely. Manners, William.”

Will groans, folds in on himself. “Please let me piss,” he says in a mortified whisper.

“Hm.” Hannibal yanks him to his feet. He's unsteady, one arm locked with Hannibal's for balance. “I believe this could be a learning opportunity.”

The first “no” is poised between his lips, but Hannibal holds up a hand to silence him. “Do as I say, and I'll let you relieve yourself in privacy. Resist and I guarantee you will regret it.” He pauses to let the threat sink in. “Now strip. You may leave your underwear on.”

Will obeys with trembling, frantic fingers. He must be so desperate, has already held out for so long. Hannibal watches with keen interest, waiting for that point of no return, but Will doesn't crack. He stands shivering in just his blue cotton boxer briefs.

“Good,” Hannibal says. He turns to the pantry, roots through spare kitchen supplies, and finds a wide, flat wooden spatula. Will's eyes widen when he sees it. He's clever; it doesn't take him more than a second to ascertain its purpose.

Hannibal positions him over the drain, legs shoulder width apart, and embraces him from behind. One hand trails lazily down Will's chest—Will jumps but doesn't shy away—to eventually rest over his swollen bladder. The bulge in his abdomen is actually visible seen from the right angle, smooth and taut. He strikes it lightly with the back of his hand.

“Nn no— _please._ ”

“Hush,” Hannibal says, pacing slow circles around him. “Here is what’s going to happen: I am going to beat you, and you are going to remain perfectly still with your legs spread, hands behind your back. You will not spill a drop of urine. Do you understand?”

Will is crying—rolling, silent tears—but he nods. Not good enough.

Hannibal grabs a fistful of his hair. “When I ask you a question, I expect you to respond 'yes, Doctor Lecter' or 'no, Doctor Lecter.' So let's try again—do you understand?”

Voice frantic, slurring: “Yes, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal slaps his abdomen playfully, ruffles his hair. “Much better,” he says. “Now, since you vomited three times on your own, shall we call it thirty strokes?”

It's not a question, and Will doesn't have the opportunity to respond before the first blow lands, directly over his bladder. He yelps but manages to keep still, balls his hands into fists behind his back to endure the pain. There is a second's pause before the next strike, then another second, another strike. 

The blows are light and sharp. A practiced flick of the wrist allows the spatula to strike the distended skin of Will's abdomen without actually transferring much force to his bladder. In just ten strokes, the area from Will's belly button to the top of his underwear is bright red and he's sobbing, unable to restrain the tears any longer.

“Remove your underwear,” he says, and Will doesn’t hesitate, desperate as he is to finish this. Hannibal takes Will's cock in his free hand and tugs it gently downward, between his legs, leaving him vulnerable.

“P-please st-st-stop,” Will sobs. His dick twitches in Hannibal's hand.

“Relax,” Hannibal says, “I merely need more surface area. We'll continue.” And then another strike, lower than the first set. He follows through with the stroke; he's met with more resistance as the spatula contacts and likely bruises Will's pelvic bone. By the fifteenth stroke he’s whimpering with every impact, mumbling half-formed prayers to gods he's paid very little attention to up until this point. Hannibal revels in his pain.

On the twentieth strike he finally gives in. His cock swells with piss, pulses in Hannibal's hand, and then he spills over with a frustrated sob.

“Slow now. Control it,” he says, but Will is too far gone. Hannibal massages his cock as it empties, feeling the ebb and flow of the stream. Piss spatters against the concrete and runs to the drain in rivulets, eventually dying down to a trickle, and then a few stray drops. Will takes a deep, shuddering breath and releases it.  
Hannibal lets go of his cock without any more undue attention. To Will's credit, he doesn't try to cover himself. He's trembling with fatigue but remains in position.

He slaps his belly one last time for emphasis before replacing the spatula on the shelf. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

When he speaks, Will is surprisingly composed, voice quiet but steady. “I'm sorry, Doctor Lecter. I tried my best.”

Hannibal steps around him, eyeing appraising his naked body like he would a cut of meat. He's drenched in sweat, barely able to support his own weight, but he does not have the dead-eyed stare of the condemned.

“I still owe you ten strokes,” Hannibal says, “but perhaps you’ve endured enough for tonight."

Will doesn't answer for fear of playing into some verbal trap, but the set of his shoulders becomes less pronounced.

“Yes, I think it's time we cleaned you up. Come with me; I'll run you a bath and prepare something for the pain.”

Will doesn't have to be prompted: “Thank you, Doctor Lecter,” he says.

~

He isn’t as reluctant as he perhaps should be to accept drugs from Hannibal, because he doesn't care if he's being manipulated. Things can't get much worse from here. He takes a pill, and doesn't ask what it is.

Hannibal, always eager to show off, tells him anyway. “Agmatine,” he says. “A biphasic opioid modulator. It will reduce your tolerance and increase the painkilling effects of the morphine I administered earlier. You can't have more until morning, but you are clearly in pain.”

“Clearly,” Will says.

Hannibal lets the rudeness slide—it's almost funny, the minuscule facial tics which signify his displeasure. Will doubts anybody else ever notices them.

“You should feel more comfortable soon.” He pauses, waiting for some expression of gratitude, but rather than softening him, trauma has made Will bold. He meets Hannibal's eyes and holds his gaze steady.

“There was a second portion to our agreement,” he says after a few moments.

“Therapy,” says Will. “I know.”

“I didn't expect you to remember. You were in quite a state when you agreed to my terms.”

“It's hazy, yeah. But I'm sitting in this chair,” he raps his knuckles on the armrest, “so it's pretty obvious what you want from me.”

Hannibal leans back, steeples his fingers. “What exactly do you think I want from you?”

Will shrugs. “You tell me.”

“I’m interested in your perception of the situation,” Hannibal says.

“My perception is that I’m as good as dead, so nothing I say really matters at this point.”

“You think I’m going to kill you?”

“Eventually.” His voice is flat. “I think you’re going to play with me first.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Will thinks about it for a moment before answering. “I feel kind of sorry for you,” he says. “I’ve been tracking the Ripper for a while, y’know. Getting inside him. I know what it’s like to be so painfully _bored_ that you have to…escalate; you have to take these kind of risks just to add flavor to your life.”

He pauses to watch Hannibal's reaction, but he's a difficult man to rile. “I wouldn’t pity me, if I were you. I’m incapable of returning the favor.”

“Yeah, well. I can’t really turn it off.” Will sighs and glances over his shoulder to the door, as if there’s any escape from this conversation. “There’s one thing I’m stuck on, though. It’s never been about the torture before. You’ve _done_ it before, but it’s always been ancillary. Now it feels like the main event.”

“Unless I’m escalating,” Hannibal says. “Upping the stakes.”

“Is torture worse than murder?”

“You tell me.”

“Point.” Will grimaces. “That was the wrong question. I guess I’m wondering why you chose me, if it’s a simple matter of upping the dose to get your fix. And you said it’s not because I got too close—if that’s the case, you could have picked somebody easier than an FBI agent.”

“I like a challenge,” says Hannibal.

“Yes, but you’re not reckless. Kidnapping me was reckless.”

Hannibal’s nostrils twitch. He wasn’t expecting to be caught in the lie.

The cogs in Will’s mind grind through their rust and into action. “You kill people you think you’re above. Pigs,” he says. “But who would give morphine to a pig? It’s this push-pull thing that you see in domestic violence cases. Abuser and savior. You set the bear trap and you pull me out a bloodied mess.”

“An interesting assessment,” Hannibal says, neither confirming nor denying. “Where in this mess do you pin my motive?”

“You're trying to foster codependency,” says Will.

“Why?”

He gives Hannibal a long, hard look. He once accused Will of building forts, but his own defenses are nearly impenetrable. Most people can be invaded and discarded over the course of a coffee date, which is the main reason Will doesn’t make coffee dates anymore—but not Hannibal.

“Do you believe I desire you sexually?”

Will snorts. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one,” says Hannibal.

Will leans back in his chair, mirroring Hannibal's posture—usually ingratiating, but he’s sure it won't work here. He says, “I don't know what you desire sexually, Hannibal.”

“Give it your best guess.”

Get in my head; tell me what I'm thinking. That's all anybody ever wants from him. But, like it or not, Hannibal's done a pretty good job fostering codependency thus far. If Will wants to survive, he has to play the game.

“You're…a sadist,” he says, “but maybe not a sexual sadist. You get something else out of it.”

Hannibal nods his encouragement.

“It's not just about inflicting pain, or pleasure, for that matter. It’s about witnessing… the extremes of human experience. The outliers.” He's falling back into the swing of this, like muscle memory. Despite his best efforts, he feels safe in this office. He's sure that's what Hannibal wants. “As far as sexual desire, you're a hedonist. That's obvious in your cooking—” he smiles a humorless smile, “—and your killing.”

It doesn't show on his face, but Hannibal is pleased. “Correct so far,” he says, “but you're missing a crucial point. What is sexuality, at its core?”

“I don't know,” Will says. “A biological instinct?”

“And?”

He hazards a guess. “A bonding ritual?”

“Exactly. Sex lessens our alienation and relieves our loneliness.”

“Do psychopaths feel lonely?”

“You feel lonely.”

Will laughs; a short, sharp sound. He'll concede that.

“You explore the minds of others, but you are only ever a visitor. I would go so far as to say loneliness is your driving force.”

“Maybe,” Will says. “But I don't have to worry about that any more, do I? I'm not allowed to be alone. You've  _graciously_ offered to save me from myself.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Quite the contrary, William. I want to help you find yourself.”

Will grimaces. “Good luck,” he says. “I think I might still be in that box.”

~

He watches Will sleep, bundled in his white canvass straitjacket, lips slightly parted. Only his.

They could have played the game. Perhaps they should have. He and Will danced around each other like bar magnets, unable to touch until one turned away. Hannibal is a proficient dancer. He could have kept it up for years.

But Will’s poles flipped; he turned out of self-preservation, without realizing how vulnerable he’d become without a line of sight. He was afraid of himself when he was with Hannibal—a staggering miscalculation of risk, but understandable in hindsight. All Hannibal understood at the time was that Will could flee his life in an instant.

It terrified him. He’s man enough to admit that. Though Will was not his first dance partner, he was by far the most skilled, the most daring, the most precious—and when he disengaged, the loss was so crippling that Hannibal thought he might never dance again. He did what he had to in order to find his footing.

Now he has to live with the decision.

His cupped hand hovers over Will’s pulse, not touching, but absorbing his warmth. Alive. 

To own another human being is a sobering obligation. He’s done it before, but always with the knowledge that it was a temporary state of affairs—that the last heartbeat was minutes away, that soon he would own a corpse. Will is different. If Hannibal kills him, he will never find another partner who can keep pace. Restrained, Will can’t dance at all.

He leans in close and inhales his breath, laced with chemical sweetness. How to keep him, but keep him dancing?

Hannibal catches himself centimeters away from Will’s face. He straightens up. They need to get moving, and he’s waxing poetic on borrowed time—if he keeps feeding Will benzodiazepines, soon they won’t erase anything. So he pulls on his boots and warms up the car; he gathers his zip ties and tape and folding chairs, and he doesn’t pause to glance back at the light in the window.

~

Will wakes up, gagged, in the dark. He is not alone.

His heart rate skyrockets. Not this again; anything but this—his breath comes in short, shallow gasps. A heavy weight crushes his chest, so when he breathes out his lungs are naturally inclined to stay empty. He screws his eyes shut and tries to ride out the waves of panic. This isn't helping, won't help him, might  _kill_ him—

_Calm down, Will. You are not dying._

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Hannibal's voice. Was that Hannibal's voice? Or was it his own internal monolog, warped into reassurance from the only person who's reassured him in recent memory?

Everything hurts, but tensing up like this makes everything worse. His heart pummels his ribcage with every beat, too swollen with blood, crowding out his lungs. God, he's dying. He's going to fucking die in here. Where the hell is Hannibal?

_You're in a forest clearing. The snow is pristine, disturbed only by animal tracks and your own footprints._

It’s not really his voice, but it’s so close that it doesn’t matter. Hannibal taught him this visualization technique. He hates that it's working.

_You can hear your pack chasing rabbits through the snow drifts. They smell you, track your movements, but keep their distance._

It takes him about forty-five seconds to calm down.

So he's on his back in a cramped space, legs bound at the ankles and folded under him. His mouth tastes funny. It's familiar, but he can't quite place it. Drugs, maybe? His hands are bound with zip ties at his front. The weight on his chest was not imagined. There's something there. Something heavy, pressing down on him. Someone.

His mind immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion: a corpse. Hannibal has killed somebody and bound his dead body to Will's, and they're going to rot in here, together.

But that doesn't make sense. The body is warm and breathing; it only feels cold because of the wind whipping around their container. Soft carpet under his face, smell of gasoline, loud engine hum. No light. The trunk of Hannibal's car.

He's not back in the box. He has more room here, and it’s a little easier to breathe. The car is moving, so he won’t be locked in for more than a few hours unless Hannibal parks somewhere and leaves him bound, which—well, he can't discount the possibility.

He sits up and attempt to wriggle free from the weight on top of him. He’s panting with exertion by the time he finally rolls the body off of his chest. It lays heavy across his legs, but at least he can breathe unimpeded.

“Nn, 'ahniba, aagh,” he mumbles through the cloth stuffed in his mouth, his efforts only saturating it with saliva. The body doesn't respond.

He runs his bound hands across the face and hair, forming a crude sketch in his mind. Male, late forties, caucasian, gagged.

No, the cheekbones aren't sharp enough; the nose is all wrong. He’s spent so much time staring at Hannibal's stupid fucking face that he could probably draw it from memory, blindfolded.

This isn't Hannibal. Who, then, is the dead weight on top of him? An ally?

His face is…slippery. There's a telltale bulge of fabric behind his teeth, but over that, layers and layers of duct tape wind all the way around his head, over his hair. Will's stomach lurches like they've hit a speed bump. The tape isn't supposed to come off. It doesn't have to.

Will knows better than to scream or struggle. It's a waste of energy, and Hannibal won't appreciate it. He doesn't want to end up like the poor sap on top of him. Instead he orients himself. How did he get here? What day is it? There's a big fat blank in his memory, like looking out the window in a blizzard.

After therapy, they retired to the master bedroom. Will remembers a glowing contentment that now seems completely inappropriate for the situation. He sits on the bed in just his underwear and allows Hannibal to strap him into a padded straitjacket. The scene is unreal, like it happened to somebody else.

Hannibal's hand brushes his shoulder. “This is as much for your own safety as for mine,” he says. “Now stay put; I'll only be a moment.”

Then nothing. He hopes he slept.

Will lies motionless and gathers his thoughts. After about fifteen minutes of uninterrupted driving, the car quietly decelerates. Keys jangle; the driver's side door slams. He braces himself. For a moment, he allows himself hope.

But the trunk swings open, and of course it's only Hannibal looming over him. He hasn't been rescued. He's a fool to even consider the possibility.

“Good morning,” Hannibal says conversationally. “I hope you were able to sleep through most of the journey. You were heavily sedated. It's been almost eighteen hours since we last spoke.”

 _That's great, Hannibal. Take this washcloth out of my mouth before I bite through it, because it probably cost at least thirty dollars._  He communicates this by wrinkling his nose and blinking, which Hannibal interprets as whatever it is he wants to hear.

With less care than he would afford a brisket, he rolls the unconscious man off of Will. He removes a box cutter from the inside pocket of his parka. Will knows better than to start struggling now; he waits as Hannibal unties his gag and cuts the zip tie around his ankles with an easy flick of his wrist.

He spits out a pair of light blue boxer briefs, unwashed, which explains the taste. That begs the question, what is he wearing right now?

“Cute,” says Will.

“I agree,” Hannibal says mildly.

He offers Will his arm, which Will refuses because he's perfectly capable of getting out of the trunk on his own, even with his hands tied. He even flips his hood up by himself. It's freezing out here.

Hannibal pulls a pair of blue latex gloves from his pocket, which is never a good sign. There's no inflection in his voice when he speaks. “You can call for help if you like,” he says. “Nobody will hear you. We're on a condemned farmstead in a secure location. Of course, I would prefer you cooperate.”

“Cut my handcuffs and I'll cooperate.”

Hannibal regards him with cold interest. After a moment he brings the box cutter to Will's hands. He presses the blade against the delicate inside of his wrist—a warning—before snapping the ties.

“Thank you,” Will says. He's learned that courtesy will get him a long way.

“If you run, I will catch you, and I will hurt you.”

His eyes narrow. “I'm being civil. You don't have to threaten me.”

Hannibal presses his lips together. “Not a threat, a fact. You're weak from prolonged immobility.”

Will knows he's right, so he changes the subject. “Who's this?” He asks, gesturing to the limp body in the trunk.

“We can discuss that, but first, shall we move somewhere warmer?”

Barren farmlands dusted with frost extend in every direction, and to his right, a peeling old barn. It probably used to be red, but the paint has faded to a dull brown. It doesn't look warm. Will nods anyway.

With surprising ease, Hannibal lifts the unconscious man out of the trunk and into a half-standing position. “Take his legs, please.”

It's not an order worth fighting, so Will grabs the man's bound ankles and helps Hannibal carry him into the barn, trying not to think too hard about what he's doing. He takes inventory of his surroundings, noting both sets of barn doors.

The inside is not what he's expecting. He doesn't know what he was expecting—hay bales, maybe—but the space looks more like an empty warehouse, save the metal livestock stalls along the back wall. In the middle of the room sits a sparse living room set: three wooden folding chairs, two with plush cushions, a rug, an end table, and a kerosene heater.

Will blinks. Is he hallucinating?

“I wanted you to be comfortable,” is all the explanation Hannibal provides.

He raises his eyebrows. “I'm never comfortable, but I, uh, appreciate the thought.”

Hannibal cracks what might be a genuine smile as he dumps the body in the third chair. “Sit,” he says, flipping on the heater. Will sits. He watches with as much detachment as he can muster as Hannibal binds the man to the chair with an electrical cable. An odd choice, especially considering his huge array of expensive bondage gear.

He doesn't want to switch on the empathy, but that's never been his decision to make. Will gets the straitjacket because he's valuable, insofar as Hannibal values any human life—but this man has offended him. He's not worthy of chains and leather.

“So, what,” he asks, slouching into the cushion. “Did he give you a parking ticket?”

“He's a dentist,” Hannibal says. He pulls the knot tight and straightens up. He's about six foot, but he stands with his shoulders back and his hips tucked, giving the impression of height. Will tries not to be intimidated.

“Not a very good dentist, I assume.”

“A pediatric dentist,” Hannibal says, expressionless. “He molests his patients under anesthesia.”

His gaze shifts from Hannibal to the unconscious man. He looks a lot like Hannibal, truth be told, but a little wider, not as lean. The difference between them is that Will could probably outrun this guy.

“Are you going to kill him?”

Hannibal's lips twitch. “He is going to die.” 

Without warning, he slaps the dentist hard across the face with sound like a gunshot. His legs jerk but his eyes remain closed.

“Come here,” Hannibal says. “You try.”

At first Will isn't sure he heard correctly, but Hannibal beckons him forward. He stands on unsteady feet, like a sailor returning to shore after weeks at sea. Hannibal guides him forward with a hand on the small of his back.

“Hold his chin, like this, and keep your palm flat. Follow through.”

He feels exposed under Hannibal's shrewd gaze, but he said he'd cooperate, so he grasps the man's chin and raises a shaking hand.

_Crack!_

Impossibly loud in the huge space, the sound bounces off the rafters and the concrete floor. The man's eyelids flicker. Without thinking, Will slaps him again. He grunts. It feels better than he thought it would and that's _terrifying_ , but the terror slips away as Hannibal places a solid hand on his shoulder.

He steps back. The victim blinks in confusion, eyes watering.

“Good,” Hannibal says. His hand shifts briefly to the back of Will's neck and then drops away. Will shivers. “It seems our friend is awake. Will, meet Dr. Mitchel Sanderson. Dr. Sanderson, Will Graham.”

The man's eyes widen and he vocalizes though the gag: scared, desperate sounds. He has some idea what's happening to him, but can't know how bad it's going to be.

“He's yet to be investigated for child abuse, but Mitchel has several malpractice suits pending against him. We're going spare him the trouble.” He slips a small, curved blade out of his coat pocket. Will's pulse spikes; he can almost taste the adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream by the truckload.

“Hannibal—”

Hannibal silences him with a look. “In a moment," he says, “I’m going to hand you this knife. I want you to remember your disadvantage and extrapolate what will happen if you turn it against me.”

Will extrapolates. Still, he has to try—if he can get at Hannibal's throat before he's able to counter, he might stand a chance.

“You're going to slit his wrists horizontally, not with the vein. Stop cutting if you reach bone. Do you understand?”

Will nods, their eyes locked. The man sobs into his gag, but it’s far away, like he's listening from the bottom of a bathtub.

“Do it slowly. No sudden movements.” Hannibal extends the knife handle-first.

There's a split second of opportunity as he releases the blade—Will could slash his throat, take him by surprise—but then Hannibal's hand settles protectively over his, and the moment passes. He didn't act fast enough.

He guides the blade to their victim's wrist, upturned, bound and vulnerable. Blue veins bulge under the pale skin. He screams; he's begging, face gone red and eyes bugging out of his head and Will is _repulsed._ Disappointed, even. Hannibal would accept this death with dignity.

Hannibal. The length of his body pressed against Will's back—even at his most ruthless he's still warm, can't snuff out that aspect of his humanity. 

Their hands entwine around the knife, but Will is the one who makes the incision. The screaming climbs several octaves. It's undignified and it makes him cut deeper, deeper, until he realizes he's scoring the bone.

He rips it away, and blood sprays his shirt cuff. Hannibal reaches for the knife.

“No, let me,” Will pants, clawing at Hannibal's hand. “Let me do it.”

To his surprise, Hannibal lets go. He doesn't break all contact, though; he digs two fingers into Will's carotid artery and wraps his palm around Will's throat. It's a threat, and it's curiosity. He wants to know what bloodlust does to Will's heart rate.

But he is not the same breed of monster as Hannibal, and he can't steady his fluttering, hummingbird pulse as he slices into the left wrist. He freezes with the knife still embedded in his victim's flesh. Will feels his victim’s agony, sharp and hot, trickling down his spine; he feels Hannibal’s cold satisfaction. They are frozen in time, blade pressed hard into bone, the only thing keeping this man's life inside his body.

He flicks his wrist. Bright red arterial blood, slow and steady.

Will stumbles backwards, head pounding, breath coming in huge gasps. Hannibal is there to catch him. He crosses his arms over Will's chest and applies pressure, compressing his lungs to keep him from hyperventilating. It works; Will's pulse steadies and he slumps into his arms, and he watches their victim as if through frosted glass. He sees pain but can't see a person.

“Hannibal,” he says, a shaky whisper. He's not sure what he's asking for—some kind of reassurance maybe, that he was forced to do this, that he did this because he had no other option.

“Very good,” Hannibal says, guiding him gently back to his chair. “You did well.”

That's not what he wants to hear, but what he wants to hear isn't the truth. The truth is that he didn't even try to resist.

Hannibal takes a step back and turns to address his audience of two with unwarranted grandeur. “I've administered a cocktail of anticoagulants,” he says. “This kind of wound could possibly clot before it becomes fatal, but rest assured, Mitchel, I've robbed your blood of that ability.”

Mitchel whimpers in response. He's already fading, losing focus. Sweat drenches his brow.

“While you bleed to death, Will and I will be having a little therapy session. I presume you won't mind.”

“Therapy?” Will asks over the unintelligible groaning—neither of them care what Mitchel has to say.

“I've recently gained some new insight into your psyche, which I would like to discuss. Think very hard about your current situation. I'm sure you can figure out what it is.”

It only takes him a moment. Wrists, chairs.

He can't believe he didn't see it earlier.

“Oh god,” he groans. “Oh god, Hannibal, no.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, crossing the room in two long strides to take their victim's head between his hands. He forces him to look at Will. “What do you think? Is it everything you imagined it would be?”

“I don't know. I imagined it would be you.”

“Tell me,” Hannibal says.

“I'm not going to talk dirty to you,” says Will.

“No need to be vulgar. I'm merely asking what you would have done differently, had you orchestrated this yourself.”

Jesus, okay, he'll play ball—there's no saving the poor sucker in that chair anyway. He swallows hard. 

“I wouldn't gag you, first of all, because I know you wouldn't call for help. Your pride would get in the way. And if I did gag you, I'd at least put some thought into it. This...” he gestures to the offending tape “ _Little_  bit tacky.”

He's trying to rile Hannibal up, but he should know better. His expression remains placid as ever, vaguely amused if anything. Will thinks that might be the strongest emotion he's capable of feeling. Vague amusement.

“You wanted to speak with me while I died. What would we discuss?”

“I don't—”

“Your feelings for me?”

Will has to double take.

“God damn it Hannibal,” he mutters. “God damn it, I don't—you locked me in a  _crate._ For  _weeks._ I don't  _have_  feelings for you.”

“Interesting,” Hannibal says. “That is not how Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom see the situation.”

Will freezes. Quietly, restrained: “You read them the note?”

“Unfortunately, it had to be submitted as evidence in your missing persons case.”

“Evidence?” His hands ball into fists. “You submitted them as fucking evidence? Beverly and Zeller and—”

Their captive interrupts him with a shriek, rattling the chair so hard that it almost tips over. Will takes a step back and a minute to think, lowers his fists and puts his hands in his pockets. Hannibal must notice how hard he's shaking.

Will can't keep that manic edge out of his voice. “This guy is dead meat, right? I mean, there's nothing I can do to prevent that.”

“If you try I will be forced to subdue you, yes.”

His fingernails bite into his hands but he's calm—he's calm, he's serious.

“I'm going to shut him up.”

Will approaches the chair, feral but lucid. He sees more clearly now than he has in a long time.

He straddles his victim, unfazed by the incessant struggling, and rips the end of the duct tape from his face. Mitchel freezes. He's frozen as Will unwinds the tape from his head, but then it starts ripping up hair, skin, and he starts thrashing like a trapped animal. Will yanks off the last few inches with a sickening, wet sound. Underneath, his mouth—if he can still call it that—looks like raw hamburger. Strong tape.

“ _Pleash,_ ” Mitchel wails. Tiny flecks of blood speckle Will's shirt.

“Shut up. Stick out your tongue.”

“He’sh lying to you, he’sh using you! I don't hurt kidsh, I'd never—”

“Shut _up._ ” Will slaps him, sending little red droplets spraying from his mouth. It's easy now that he's gotten the hang of it. “You think I don't know that? Hannibal's not a vigilante; he just hates assholes. I'm guessing you're an asshole.”

“I'm s-sorry, pleash don't kill me! I'll do anything, _pleash,_ ” he sobs.

“Fine.” Will shrugs. “Stick out your tongue.”

“W-what are you going to d-do?”

“I'm in the middle of an important conversation and you are inter _rupting_ me. Do you want to die, Mitchel?”

He shakes his head.

“Then stick out your fucking tongue.”

He pokes his tongue out between his mangled lips.

“Good,” Will says. “Stay like that, or I'll slit your throat.” He twists around to look at Hannibal, who is watching, eyes dark. Will motions him closer.

Without having to be asked, Hannibal passes him the knife and wraps his hand around the back of Will's neck. He doesn't say anything. He’s content to let this unfold organically.

“ _Pleash no,_ ” Mitchel groans. Will smacks him with the flat of the blade, and while he's still reeling in shock, pinches his tongue hard between thumb and forefinger and wrenches it out as far as it will go. Gagging, retching, screaming.

“Hold his mouth open.”

Hannibal digs gloved fingers between his back molars. Mitchel can't bite down without biting through his own cheeks, but Hannibal still has a free hand.

“And hold his head still,” Will adds.

That's better. Hannibal grips the back of the head, immobilizing it, and that's all the encouragement Will needs to slip the blade under the tongue and sever the frenum in one quick motion. His prey screams, kicks, tries to throw him off—but it's two against one, and Will is already working his fingers into the newly-created slit under the tongue. Blood and tissue collect beneath his nails as he scrambles for purchase. His fingers slip deeper into the hot, yielding muscle and  _rip._

The screams turn into pained, wet gurgles as Will tears his tongue out by the root. Mitchel chokes on his own blood; breathing turns to wheezing turns to panic and the look in his eyes—horror, betrayal.

This is the first time Will has ever been awake. This is the first moment of his life.

He lunges for Hannibal's throat. He pushes past the resistance and the knife sinks into flesh, almost to the hilt, and for a second, thinks he's done it. Hope tingles hot and heady down the back of his neck, and is just as quickly extinguished.

He didn't count on Hannibal's willingness to be stabbed. He twists in Will's grip and throws his weight into the blade, pushing it deep into his bicep. His only reaction is a pained grunt, and then he has Will in a headlock, choking him tight against his chest.

Will kicks wildly, squirms and arches off their victim's lap. He gets a foot up on his chest and kicks the chair over. Mitchell's head impacts the floor with a nauseating crunch. Will _feels_ the blood flooding Mitchell's sinuses, the hemorrhaging brain tissue, the agonizing scrape of bone against bone.

He can't get Hannibal's forearm away from his throat, can't get any oxygen into his burning lungs.

Hannibal's voice drifts toward him. He’s unnaturally calm for a man with a knife in his arm. “This was a test,” he says. “You failed. Don't faint yet, listen to me. Are you listening?”

Will’s scream catches in his throat. Spit bubbles and drips from his mouth as he chokes.

“You're mine, Will. I own you. I could allow you some freedom, but continue to bite the hand that feeds, and I promise you will spend the rest of your life in captivity.”

White hot pressure builds behind his eyes as his vision darkens.

“Forget autonomy. Your body and mind belong to me. You should get used to the idea now.”

Will struggles to remain conscious—he's not sure why; instinct, maybe—but it's futile. The last thing he hears is Hannibal's voice in his ear, soft and dangerous.

“Pathetic,” he croons. “Can't even stay awake.”

Then nothing.

~

He tosses Will's limp body over his uninjured shoulder. The corpse stays where Will left it, flat on its back and tied to the chair, blood pooling on the concrete beneath it. Dr. Sanderson was still alive when Will kicked him over—ironically, it was the impact that killed him, not the blood loss or asphyxiation. He might be pleased to know he saved Mitchel some suffering.

Or perhaps not. After all, the tongue was entirely his idea.

Hannibal needs medical attention, but it’s not his most urgent concern. The crime scene is already perfect, covered in Will’s prints, and Hannibal’s knife and blood are still in his arm, where both will remain until they make it home. Will, however, will not be unconscious for long. Forty-five minutes would be a generous estimate—that means he'll have to work with what he already has.

~

No. No no no no _no no no no no no no; oh god no oh my God, Hannibal, Hannibal_ HANNIBAL PLEASE HANNIBAL NO _OH MY GOD—_

He can't see. The air around him is stale and smells of fear. He's on his back, naked save the leather mitts locked onto his hands. He's in the box.

He screams and screams. He begs; he offers everything he has and a few things he doesn't in exchange for mercy, for anything, just a breath of fresh air. He sobs apology after apology— _I'm so sorry, Hannibal; killing him felt so good and I couldn't stop myself._  He knows what Hannibal wants to hear, but Hannibal isn't around to listen. Will keeps screaming.

His muscles have lost elasticity. His legs and lower back are on fire. This unnatural position is killing him. The crushing force of the surrounding plexiglass is killing him. The adrenaline, the pounding heart, the tears rolling freely down his face—but he can't die. Hannibal won't let him die.

He’ll see about that.

With his feet behind his head there are two inches of space between the wall and his face. It's not much, but it's all he has, and it’s enough to smash his forehead against the side of the box. It hurts a little bit. He does it again. It hurts a little more. He does it again.

This is his only option. He can't get out; he can't even move a centimeter to relieve the pain. He can't withstand another minute of this, and he's already losing his mind. Death will be a welcome relief.

For maybe an hour or two—it's hard to tell—he bashes his head against the glass. If he snaps his neck forward in just the at just the right angle he can hit it hard enough to make his ears ring.

But he eventually gets dizzy and nausea forces him to stop. He can't imagine anything worse than vomiting in this tiny space, and he already knows deep down that this isn't going to work. It's wishful thinking. Funny how he was afraid his fluids were poisoned the first time around—now he'd do anything for some IV antifreeze.

A sudden, flashbulb memory of the man he killed drowning in his own blood, the inhuman rasp of lungs flooded thick and heavy. A flash of insight.

This is something, an alternative to the miserable rest of his life. Will has hurt worse. He can take pain. That's all he's been doing lately, and he's getting pretty good at it.

He sticks his tongue out at far as he can and bites down tentatively, and even gentle pressure makes him start salivating as a defensive response. This is going to hurt. Drowning in his own blood will be a horrific way to die.

But what else can he do? Last time he was trapped in here for weeks, maybe months, and that was just to soften him up. This is punishment. He can't stand another minute of this life, so it’s really not a choice at all.

Dissociate. You can do this.

He’ll aim to get it over in one quick bite. Front teeth resting gently against his sensitive tongue, his entire body trembling like a leaf in a monsoon. So close to the tipping point.

He breathes in, silently curses Hannibal, breathes out.

_Snap._

He chokes in pain. It's an ugly, desperate sound, wet and metallic and pathetic. Fuck, fuck _fuck fuck fuck_  he can't take this, he can't do this—but shock has locked up his jaw and that makes it easier to dig a little further into his own flesh. Individual muscle fibers sever between his teeth. The average human can swallow a pint of blood before vomiting. That's a lot.

Not enough. Not enough to kill him, not enough to drown him though he's  _trying,_ disobeying every instinct and sucking blood into his lungs. He coughs it up until it coats his face and neck and naked chest, a fine mist tinting everything red. Or maybe that's his vision failing.

Sharp, hot, insistent; it hurts so much that he can't focus on anything else for even a second. He's whimpering and crying and sweating and his heart is hammering so hard that he's sure his ribcage will crack, split open and spill his filthy insides all over everything.

He couldn't bite all the way through. Probably not even halfway through. He's wheezing but not drowning. He's only made things worse. If he's lucky enough to suffocate, it will take a long, long time, and until then he has yet another unbearable pain to attend. A terrible idea. Stupid.

He waits for his brain to shut down, but if he's in shock, it isn't helping.

So he cries for a while, and when his tears and blood finally slow to a trickle he pulls his swollen, mangled tongue back into his mouth and cradles it there. He swallows the blood at first, but after a certain point he can't keep it down, and he's reduced to drooling thick red saliva onto his chest. It creeps down his abdomen, pooling around his soft cock in a puddle on his naval. 

The seconds drag on. He’s sticky, itchy, but he can't do anything about it. He can't do anything. He has no control over his situation, his environment, his limbs—and his mind is worse than useless. Consciousness is the enemy.

He just wants to leave his body, just thirty seconds reprieve from the pain. Just a little shot in his IV port. He just wants some fucking morphine, more than he's ever wanted anything.

Please, God; Hannibal— _please._

~

Hannibal is slow to anger, and he can hold a grudge with olympic endurance. When he's angry he never lashes out; he acknowledges the feeling, tucks it away, and lets it fester inside him until the day he deems opportune to weaponize it.

But when he opens the box, it takes every ounce of his willpower not to scream.

Three hours. He was only gone for three hours, a little clean-up and a few stitches, but the physical trauma has left him exhausted. He just wants to bind Will for the night, perhaps taunt him a bit, and then sleep through breakfast. But no—Will is insolent; he's self-destructive, and apparently, he can't be left alone for three hours without mutilating himself. Hannibal takes a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“William.”

“Nnng,” Will groans. He looks up at with wild eyes, pupils dilated, sweaty hair clinging to his face.

“You should know better than to injure yourself under my care.”

He doesn't say anything. He probably won't be able to say anything for at least a few days.

“You have betrayed my trust,” Hannibal says, sliding Will out of the container, careful to keep the blood off his carpet. “I gave you freedom and you turned it against me. Do not expect me to be so lenient in the future.”

Will can't answer around his swollen tongue, but that's for the best. Anything he could say would only make his situation worse.

He's weak, shivering, pale as death and streaked reddish brown from his chin to his hips. On impulse, Hannibal grabs his limp, bloody cock in one hand and _squeezes._ Will shrieks, spitting up more blood to drip dark and sticky down his body.

“Control yourself,” Hannibal hisses. He grabs Will by the hair and hauls him to his feet, ignoring his desperate sob.

Hannibal half-carries, half-drags him down the stairs. He deposits Will's limp body in the wheelchair once more, pulling every belt cruelly tight.

Will is quiet save his erratic, labored breathing. His chest is crushed by the wide leather belts, and he's already inhaled some blood. Hannibal is keeping a close eye on his respiration and has supplemental oxygen on hand for use in an emergency, and only in an emergency.

“I won't be using anesthesia, since you did this to yourself.”

“Hh hhaaaahn nnn, eeth, eeth,” Will begs around his mangled tongue.

“Please what? I can't understand you.”

“Nng—orphine, orphine, ah ah ah–” he wails in frustration “–UGHS, UGHS, ANIBAUGH EETH!”

Hannibal purses his lips. “I'm sorry, but whatever it is I'm afraid it will have to wait until we get your tongue fixed. Open up.”

He doesn't wait for Will to obey before forcing a dental gag between his lips, strapping it tight behind his head. Two metal arms hold his jaws open. Hannibal uses the crank to ratchet Will's mouth open as wide as possible and then a little further, until his pleas are reduced to wet gurgling sounds. Then he disappears behind the chair to scrub in.

“You're lucky you're already under a surgeon's care,” he says, slipping two fingers into Will's mouth to survey the damage. It's a gruesome injury, one which would require some serious willpower to self-inflict. Multiple bite marks are a testament to Will's dedication. He would have bitten all the way through were he not so weak from captivity.

“Were you trying to kill yourself?” Hannibal asks offhandedly, readying his surgical tray. “As your psychiatrist I am of course obligated to ask. Though as your friend, I must be honest with you—I am curious if it was a serious suicide attempt or merely a ploy for attention, considering that you failed to sever your tongue.”

“Nnnnnnghhh,” Will groans. Not words, just a sound of general misery. He clamps forceps to the tip of Will's tongue, pulls it down and out, and secures the device with medical tape. Will's eyelids flicker and his breathing quickens.

“You don't want to die,” Hannibal croons. He’s quieted down somewhat, acclimated to the pain or too exhausted to protest, and he doesn't respond.

To business, then.

Hannibal has experience performing surgery outside a hospital setting. Those patients all died within a few hours due to unrelated circumstances, but he does know what he's doing—his workspace is clean and well-equipped; it's a relatively simple procedure. That doesn't quell the powerful adrenaline rush that keeps his hands steady and his head clear, that he learned to crave as a medical student and has not stopped craving since.

Dorsal and ventral injuries to the body of the tongue, but no bisecting wounds or damage to the frenum. That makes things easier. The first step is a through saline irrigation. Oral lacerations are always tricky because of the natural bacteria in the mouth, so it's essential that he pour saline into Will's until he's sputtering and struggling for air.

Will tries to move his tongue out of the way only to elicit a fresh squirt of bright red blood from the primary laceration. Hannibal tugs gently on the forceps to reprimand him. He yelps.

“You'll cooperate if you ever want to speak again,” he says mildly. “Tongue is a delicacy.”

The sutures are easy to apply using three-layer technique. First the muscular and inferior mucosa, then stitches up and around the lateral aspect of the tongue to close the superior mucosa. It only takes about twenty minutes, but must feel much longer to Will, who whimpers and flinches each time the needle pierces his tongue. When it's done he douses the area in saline again.

“That's better,” he says, snipping the tail of the last suture.

Will's breathing has slowed somewhat. He remains still as Hannibal releases some of the straps, leaving only his legs and hips anchored to the chair.

“You are lucky that the mouth is quick to heal,” says Hannibal. “Barring complications, you should be able to talk again in about five days, though I'm afraid I must feed you a liquid diet for longer than that. To ensure you don't injure yourself again, I'll have to leave the gag in place.”

He waves a pad of paper in front of Will’s face. “If there's anything you need to say, write it down now. This will be your only chance to communicate for the next few days, so I recommend you take advantage.”

Will’s fingers twitch toward the pen. Hannibal passes it to him.

He has to stop himself from chuckling at the faint scribbles Will's shaking hand produces. He can't press hard enough to make a solid mark. Hannibal takes pity and takes his hand, allowing him to guide the pen while he applies the pressure. He’s shaking badly that it takes him a minute to write a single word:

_morphine_

“Morphine,” he repeats aloud. “Interesting. One would imagine that if you disliked pain, you wouldn't have bitten through your own tongue.”

Will tries to speak, but all that comes out are a few raspy nonsense syllables, and the effort leaves him trembling. Poor thing.

“I suppose I can give you some morphine if you want it that badly,” he says. “Let's compromise. I will administer a high dose of painkillers.” He pauses much longer than necessary, enjoying the anxiety it causes. “But first,” he says, “you're going to get on your knees and take my cock down your throat.”

Will's face crumples as his last shred of hope is demolished. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks, though he can't muster the energy to voice the wail of despair so obviously trapped in his throat.

“Hha…” he breathes, gesturing minutely toward the pen.

“What's that?” Hannibal asks. He knows what Will wants; Will knows that he knows, but he can't help himself. Teasing is too much fun.

“Hha, ah—nng, nnng!”

Hannibal smiles. “The pen, of course.” He passes it to Will and again helps him steady his hand, but Will hesitates. Ink wells up where the nib touches the paper. “Go ahead,” Hannibal says.

Letter by agonizing letter, Will writes three little words that make Hannibal's heart flutter:

_please kill me_

“I hate to decline such a polite request,” Hannibal says, “but I'm afraid I cannot honor it today. Perhaps if you ask me later.” He takes the pen and paper away and returns to the business of unstrapping Will from the chair. He ignores the wordless begging and gently guides him to his knees.

“Aaah, ahhh, nnggg,” Will sobs around his gag. He balls his hands into fists and pounds them on the concrete floor like a child having a temper tantrum, until his knuckles are bloody and he's dizzy from exhaustion. He slumps forward, curling in on himself.

Hannibal lifts him up by the hair, and when Will won't meet his eyes gives him a light slap, which in his condition might as well be a punch in the jaw. His gaze flickers to Hannibal. He flickers in an out of awareness. 

He's trying to retreat into the safety of his mind, but there is no solace left there. Hannibal has made sure of that.

~

Will has never sucked cock. He's never even considered that he could be sexually interested in men. That's not to say he's never fantasized about men—it's just that he only fantasizes about killing them.

He fantasizes now, on his knees, about biting off Hannibal's cock, but knows he won't do it. It won't earn him the quick death he craves.

“I will be as gentle as possible,” Hannibal says, unstrapping the gag from Will's face. He's grateful for a moment's relief from the tension. “It will hurt less if you hold your tongue still behind your teeth. I'm going to put on a sterile condom to reduce the risk of infection. Stay in position.”

Will does, though he's trembling from exhaustion. He's defiled already, drenched in sweat and blood and spit and tears—he'll save himself some pain by following directions, because Hannibal is going to rape him whether or not he cooperates.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but can't block out his other senses. The rasp of Hannibal's zipper, the musky, masculine smell of him, and then the taste of latex, and the hot, insistent weight of his half-hard cock against Will's lips. They part reluctantly and he allows Hannibal into his mouth.

“Suction might re-open the wound, so please refrain. Simply keep your mouth open.”

Will does. It hurts less than he anticipated, but he anticipated agony, so that's not much comfort. He winces as Hannibal's cock brushes ever-so-gently across his tongue.

“Shh,” Hannibal says, stroking his hair. It's disguised as a gesture of affection, but allows him to cup the back of Will's head and hold him still so he can slide all the way into his throat.

The head of his cock brushes against Will's uvula, and he's sure he's going to vomit up all that blood and saline—but he barely even gags. In fact, relaxing the muscles of his esophagus is easy. He allows his instincts to take over, blissful autopilot, and allows Hannibal's thick shaft all the way in.

He grinds into Will's face like he's trying to smother him, but Will knows that won't happen. Hannibal wouldn’t have stitched up his tongue if he were about to die, so he chokes and swallows and keeps all that blood in his stomach, where it belongs, and he trusts Hannibal to let him breathe.

Trusts Hannibal to let him breathe. To let him breathe—let him  _breathe—Hannibal!_

He pulls out at the last possible second. The head rush from that first lungful of oxygen nearly knocks Will backwards. His chest clenches; the fresh air burns his lungs but tastes so sweet. His obedient mouth hangs open, drooling thick, red-streaked mucous.

Hannibal does it again, slowly feeds his cock down Will's throat, deliberately pressing into his uvula. He fucks upward to avoid the wound, trading the sharp pain of laceration for the dull burn of stomach acid. In, out; breathe, repeat. Eventually Will can't hold back the thin trickle of diluted blood that floods his mouth, but Hannibal only pulls out, wipes his red-streaked cock on Will's face, and shoves it back in.

He obviously wants Will to vomit more—maybe to humiliate him, or because he likes seeing his cock streaked with blood, or because it feels good—but it's surprisingly hard to make that happen. Will is sure that his gag reflex was in working order before all this.

It lasts for hours, for months, a slow and relentless grind toward completion. Will's jaw aches, his tongue throbs. Tears cloud his vision and roll down his face, cleansing the blood from his chest in pinkish rivulets.

But Hannibal is only human, despite outward appearances, and eventually he loses himself in his pleasure. He fucks Will's mouth, bouncing his head up and down on his cock in an unforgiving rhythm. He presses his thumbs into Will's cheeks, behind his back teeth, keeping him from biting—not that Will would dare.

Finally he stills. His firm grip keeps Will's face buried in his crotch, his full length buried in Will's throat. Hannibal becomes Will's entire world—his scent, his taste, the heat of his body. His cock swells and pulses in Will's mouth.

He comes in three long spurts, and Will groans in relief. He has never been more thankful for another person's orgasm.

With a hand in his hair, Hannibal drags his limp head off his cock and tosses him to the floor, where he remains, crumpled up, his body and pride injured. He focuses on his breath, too exhausted to do anything else.

Hannibal ignores him while he cleans himself up and disposes of needles and assorted medical waste. When he reenters Will's field of vision, he’s a vague suggestion of a figure viewed through fluttering eyelids and the pulsing, ruddy glow of pain.

“Did you enjoy that as much as I did?” He asks.

Will can't speak, but he nods.  _Yes, Doctor Lecter._

“No you didn't,” Hannibal muses, “but you're a quick study. You'd agree to anything for your painkillers, wouldn't you, Will? Tell me, would you allow me to amputate one of your limbs?”

Will hesitates, and then nods.

“Of course you would,” Hannibal says. “Would you allow me to feed it to you?”

Will nods. No hesitation.

Hannibal smiles and strokes his hair. His hand trails down the back of his neck and then around to his chest; dried blood flakes away from his touch. “Not today,” he says. “You've suffered beautifully for me. You deserve a reward.”

Without fully realizing what he's doing, Will takes Hannibal's hand and pulls him closer, cradles his arm against his chest. It's the only way he can think to show his gratitude.

“You're welcome,” Hannibal says. Perhaps Will is imagining it, but the cold edge seems to have left his voice. He allows the contact for a few seconds before drawing away. “I'm going to prepare your shot.”

He gathers supplies and sits on the floor with him, so they’re chest-to-chest.

Without his glasses, Will can't focus on anything more than a foot away—how considerate of Hannibal to hold the vial of intravenous morphine close enough that he can read the label. Hands inches from Will's face, Hannibal breaks the sterile seal on both bottle and needle, draws air into the syringe, pierces the rubber top of the bottle, expels the air inside. The pressure makes liquid shoot into the syringe as soon as he releases the plunger.

It’s fascinating. The memory of that pleasure sends spasms of anticipation up his spine. In a few seconds he'll feel it again. He's practically salivating at the thought.

Hannibal caps the needle and twists it off, screws the syringe into the IV port. With the connection sealed he's able to hold it in one hand. Will jerks in surprise as the other one wraps around his cock. He's soft—probably never been softer; he hurts so badly—but Hannibal fondles him anyway. His hands are warm; his breath is warm against the shell of Will's ear.

“I want you to imagine how good it's going to feel to be completely devoid of pain,” he murmurs in that hypnotic voice, fingers teasing him with the rhythmic precision of a metronome. “Think about the warmth flooding your body. You failed me, Will, but you've earned my forgiveness. Feel the ecstasy of forgiveness.”

The first stirring of arousal in his gut happens without his conscious knowledge or consent. The influx of hot blood makes him twitch in Hannibal's hand.

That's his signal to depress the plunger. In the brief seconds before the drug floods Will's system. he twitches again, thrusts minutely into Hannibal's hand—and then all sensation flees his body, arousal obliterated by saccharine narcotic warmth. He tosses his head back and groans.

“Wonderful, isn't it?” Hannibal asks, releasing his cock and unscrewing the syringe, closing the port, hugging Will tight to his chest.

He sighs, and his pained breathing settles into a dangerously slow rhythm. Tears of relief roll down his face as his body melts, drips like oil down Hannibal's chest. He is overcome with all-encompassing peace.

They stay like that, entwined in one another like untrained ivy. Will drifts into the welcoming void.

~

The staccato of Will's heartbeat slows; his body goes slack as he nods off in Hannibal's arms. His pain-tight grimace softens.

He's beautiful.

Though Hannibal wanted to enjoy Will's lucidity a little bit longer, he has no choice but to proceed ahead of schedule. He pushed too hard—the mangled tongue is testament enough to that—and now his precious teacup has shattered. It was bound to happen eventually.

No matter. Though the timing is all wrong, Hannibal has planned for this. He's perfected his techniques on dozens of unwitting canvasses, and now he's finally found the perfect medium. Like all great sculptures, the form is already buried under the excess, beautiful and terrible, just waiting for a chisel and a skilled hand.

Will is going to be his magnum opus.


	2. Il Pallor Funesto, Orrendo (The Deadly, Fearful Pallor)

_“God spare me physical pain and I'll take care of the moral pain myself.”  
Oscar Wilde_

Will returns to himself, reluctantly, to find that his body is not where he left it.

He's in a room he's never seen before, sitting in the most comfortable chair in the world. Massive bay windows bathe him in dazzling sunlight. They overlook only clear blue sky, and he doesn't care enough about the view to justify moving.

Strange, though; Hannibal's house doesn’t have bay windows. Has he never seen the house from the right angle, or has Hannibal moved him somewhere else in his sleep? Some questions are better left unanswered.

Maybe not this one. Some niggling anxiety insists that his location is important, that he needs to know where he is in case he gets a chance to… gets a chance to what? Hannibal can tell him.

“Hannibal?” He asks aloud. His voice is strong and clear with just the barest hint of a lisp. He runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth and feels only smooth muscle—perhaps a little less smooth than he remembers, but whole. No stitches.

But... why is he expecting stitches? Did something happen to his mouth? He grasps only the faintest memory of pain, sharp copper and iron.

“Hannibal?” He asks again, louder this time.

A steady hand appears on his shoulder. Will wants to look, but his body isn't responding to his brain. “Hannibal?” He repeats, an edge of panic creeping into his voice. “Where am I?”

“Relax, Will.” Hannibal is close behind him. “You're safe here. You are in my greenhouse, surrounded by the most beautiful flowers you have ever seen.”

And he is. Vibrant tropical plants spill from planters from the ceiling, spring from the exposed earth. His chair is in the center of an intricate tile mosaic which trails off into a terracotta path. Birds sing in the distance; water bubbles from some unknown source. He can't turn his head to locate it.

“Why can't I move?” He asks.

“You don't want to move,” says Hannibal. “You feel you cannot move until you've fully absorbed the beauty in front of your eyes, but it is infinitely complex. Every time you think you've found all the garden has to offer, something new steals your breath away.”

Hannibal is right; Will doesn't know why he couldn't see it before. Euphoria washes over him, a feeling akin to religious awe. Tears spring to his eyes. He is  _so_  grateful to Hannibal for bringing him here, and for bringing the magnificent garden to his attention.

His fingers comb through Will's hair, massaging his scalp in concentric circles. Hands travel down his neck to knead away the residual tension in his shoulders.

“You have endured great trauma, Will. I am here to help you.”

“Trauma?” He asks. “What happened to me?” He strains for a glimpse of Hannibal's face, but then remembers that he doesn't want to look away from the garden, and trains his eyes dutifully ahead.

“No one but you knows that for certain,” says Hannibal.

Will's face contorts in effort. “I can't…I can't remember anything.” The last thing he remembers is changing the dogs' water last night—no, brushing his teeth. He remembers that, remembers drinking a nightcap, and then nothing. Darkness.

“The memories will return, in time.”

“What if they don't?”

Hannibal pauses. Will wants to see his face. “You'll remember. But if you don't, it's because your subconscious knows that doing so would shatter you.”

“I want...” Will trails off. His head is fuzzy, his attention divided between Hannibal and the majesty of the garden.

“Yes?” Hannibal prompts.

Will frowns. A new void has torn open inside him, more nothingness for his ever-growing collection. It was full once, though he doesn't know how long ago—full of light and peace.

“Morphine,” he says. That's it. He doesn't know when he took it or why, but he knows it will soothe this ache. He furrows his brow, speaks with more conviction: “I need morphine.”

Hannibal chuckles darkly. “Yes,” he muses, “it hurts, doesn't it?”

Will is wrenched into consciousness, gasping for breath. Every over-exerted muscle is trembling. Drenched in sweat, tangled in a mass of soaking wet sheets, he claws feebly at his surroundings, but his body is weak and exhausted. It feels like someone else's body.

“Hannibal,” he whines through gritted teeth. “Help me, help me, help m–”

“Hush, William; I'm here.”

He reaches blindly into the black expanse. “Can't b-breath, helpmehelpme—”

Then Hannibal's hand covers his mouth and nose and he truly can't breathe. On reflex he tries to wrench it away, but he's about as strong as a late-stage cancer patient. He scrabbles at Hannibal's arm until he realizes that he wasn't suffocating; he was hyperventilating. He stills. Two beats, and Hannibal opens his airway.

A deep, dizzying lungful of air. He collapses back onto his pillow as his vision darkens. He rides it out. His heart steadies; his hands tremble.

“You're alright,” says Hannibal. “You were having a panic attack.”

“I know,” Will says. He tries to tamp down the hysterical laughter in his chest, but it bubbles out in nail-gun bursts.

Without comment, Hannibal helps him untangle his limbs from the ruined bedding, leaving him covered only from the knees down. He's wearing blue cotton boxer-briefs and nothing else. He shivers at the influx of cold air.

Hannibal disappears for a moment and returns with a towel and a soft terrycloth bathrobe. He dries himself as best he can, slips the robe over his shoulders, and attempts to roll out of bed. Hannibal stops him.

“Don't get up yet,” he says. “There's something I need to tell you first.”

“Something bad?” Will asks. His mind shuffles through worst-case scenarios. “Where am I?”

“You are in my summer home,” Hannibal says, “about forty miles outside of Florence.”

His eyes widen. “Italy?”

Hannibal nods. “We are on the southwest shore of Lago di Bilancino, near the town of Cavallina.”

Will's shoulders slump. He buries his face in his hands. “Christ,” he moans through his fingers. “ _Why,_ Hannibal? I want to go home.”

Hannibal's expression remains placid. “We’re a short train ride from the airport,” he says. “You're not trapped here. You can leave whenever you like.” He pauses, glances to the side. “Unfortunately, the home you remember no longer exists.”

“What?”

“Something happened,” says Hannibal, lips pulled tight. “Some would call it an act of God.”

Will scowls. “What do you call it?”

“A fire,” Hannibal says. “It destroyed everything.”

“My dogs?”

Silence.

“Oh God,” Will whispers. Grief crashes into him like a tidal wave, engulfs him entirely, strands him in the ocean. He blinks furiously, but the tears come regardless, hot and unwanted.

Hannibal takes his hand and draws Will closer, allowing him to crumple like wastepaper against his chest. “No…” he sobs, shoulders trembling. “No, oh god…”

“I'm so sorry, Will.” Hannibal pats his sweaty hair.

After a few minutes, his tears dry up and he's able to look at him again through puffy red eyes. He wracks his brain for a fire, for heat or light or smoke, but comes up empty handed.

“I don't remember,” he says. He sniffles and wipes his nose on the back of his hand, cursing his weakness. He doesn't want Hannibal to see him like this. “Was I there?”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, “but you were delirious. The paramedics found you trying to barricade yourself in the cupboard under your kitchen sink. We're lucky you didn't succeed.”

He can tell there's more by the pregnant pause which follows. Hannibal is trying to give it to him gently. “Just say it,” Will sighs. “Tell me what happened.”

Hannibal looks him up and down, assessing his mettle.

“Tell me.”

“I will,” he says, “but this is going to be difficult for you to hear.”

“I don't care,” Will spits. “I need to know.”

Hannibal nods. He speaks with solemn reverence, as if delivering a eulogy.

He says, “In the week of November 1st, sometime between 6:00pm on Friday and 9:00am on Tuesday, you were kidnapped. You were missing for five months.”

The color drains from Will's face, not that he had much color to begin with. “Five months?”

“The police had closed the investigation when, on March 8th, you turned up in the Johns Hopkins Hospital parking lot. You were unresponsive, covered in dozens of minor injuries, and several more serious wounds. Even I couldn't get more than a few words out of you. You couldn't remember your own name.”

Will opens his mouth and closes it again, at a loss.

Hannibal reclines in his chair. His eyes are ringed with dark circles. Will has never seen him so harrowed, and it makes him anxious—if Hannibal is losing his composure, then frankly, they're fucked.

“It took another two months to rehabilitate you,” he says. “I was directly involved in your therapy, but the hospital released you against my recommendation.” He sighs, casts his gaze downward. “In their defense, you seemed healthy. You demonstrated that you could take care of yourself, and you were passing our competency tests.”

He swallows the painful lump in his throat. “Then why keep me longer?”

“Just a hunch,” he says. “Something about you was implacably broken. Your personality seemed… artificial. You were the Innocenti Façade, a unified false exterior disguising a haphazard internal structure. Your words, even when you confided in me, sounded pre-rehearsed.”

Hannibal pauses, shakes his head.

“Unfortunately, a hunch was not enough to keep you when you were so desperate to go home. You were released on the condition that you attend four hour-long therapy sessions per week.” He smiles minutely. “They wanted to assign you a local psychologist to avoid that drive into Baltimore, but you refused to speak to anyone but me. I suggested house calls to save you the strain.”

“That was generous of you,” Will says. The words sound hollow and insincere, but if Hannibal notices, he doesn't say anything.

“My generosity proved to be your salvation,” says Hannibal. “On the evening of our first session, I arrived an hour early because I'd brought a bottle of Merlot to celebrate your recovery. I wanted to surprise you.” He sighs and shakes his head. “But it was you who surprised me. I could see the smoke from the road. It seems you lit the blaze just in time for me to find your charred corpse beneath the kitchen sink.”

Will stares, dumbfounded. He's trying desperately to reconcile this information with what little memory he has left, but the pieces don't fit together. He can't recall a kidnapping, or recovery, or arson, or anything. “I set the fire?” He asks. He already knows the answer, but he needs to hear Hannibal say it.

“Yes.” Hannibal looks away, sorrow tugging at the corners of his eyes, and then back to Will. “You were the only person on the property, and the fuel was taken from your shed. And you have…a history of self-harm.”

Will slumps into his pillow. He needs a moment to let it sink in.

He destroyed his own house, the only place in the world where he felt safe. All of his possessions. His dogs. Gone. Taking his own life is one thing, but to murder his family, who looked to him for protection—he can't stomach it. He's going to be sick.

Hannibal knows the tells. He passes Will a waste bin just in time for him to spit up a few cups of clear liquid. It burns coming up, and he deserves the discomfort. That and so much more. Hannibal rubs his back as he coughs and gasps. He can't bear to make eye contact, even though he knows it's useless trying to hide anything from him.

“I'm so sorry.”

Will is numb; a cold tingle ripples outward from his chest. “Is that all?” He asks in a harsh whisper.

Hannibal doesn't answer.

“What else?”

Silence.

He clenches his fists.“For fuck's sake, Hannibal, what  _else?_ ”

“There is one more thing,” Hannibal says quietly. He speaks as if to a wounded animal, poised to bite at the slightest provocation. “I told you that you sustained some severe injuries. That's not exactly true—you sustained only one injury severe enough to require surgery. To your left calf.”

He looks to Hannibal with wide, horrified eyes, and rips the covers off of his legs.

Nothing.

He looks at the empty space where his left calf should be, then back to Hannibal. For the life of him he can't think of anything to say.

“I'm sorry,” Hannibal says once more.

But Will doesn't want his sympathy. He wants answers. He wants to know who did this to him.

“How? Was—did it get infected? Was it broken?”

He shakes his head. “It was amputated before you arrived at the hospital. At least a month prior.”

Neither of them say anything for a long while after that. There's nothing to say. Will tugs the covers over the mangled stump of his left knee and rolls to one side of the enormous king-sized bed. Hannibal takes the silent invitation, lowering himself gingerly to sit against the headboard. Will leans into him and rests his head in the crook of his neck.

He takes measured breaths. Hannibal's scent is calming. The old Will Graham might have balked at this intimacy, certainly wouldn't initiate it—but now, swallowed as he is by this endless, freezing sea of grief, he needs to touch something warm.

~

He has a very expensive prosthetic leg. He knows it's expensive because when he asked where it came from, Hannibal said that  _he_  bought it, with his own money. Rehabilitation maxed out Will's academy-sponsored insurance plan, which was pretty good but not as good as real FBI insurance, because Will was not real FBI.

Now he's not even fake FBI. He's not anything. His body is useless; his old life is a steaming crater in the ground. His assets were destroyed with the house. It's his own fault for keeping so much of his savings in cash.

The prosthetic attaches to his real leg with a discreet leather strap above the knee. The flesh cover is intricately detailed, sculpted in firm silicone and painted with care, down to the tiny blue veins in the foot. It's impressive, almost indistinguishable from the real thing—and Will tries to be happy with that. His leg is gone. It's not coming back, and there's no use getting upset about it when there's nothing he can do but keep moving forward, on one foot and one plastic replica. Still, he can't help grieving. Hannibal tells him the emptiness will pass.

He walks laps around the bedroom while Hannibal prepares lunch. Will politely declined a tour of the villa and its extensive grounds. He said he didn't feel strong enough to walk very far. The real reason is that he can't process so much change at once. He’s afraid his brain will switch off and he'll sink back into delirium.

So he doesn't think about it. He settles for exploring the bedroom, for now, and the attached master bath with the jacuzzi tub, the authentic Tuscan terracotta tiles, the hand-carved grapevine crown molding. A full-length mirror hangs on the back of the door. He catches a glimpse of his own face before turning away. Not yet.

But his single, hollow eye sticks in his memory like an insect to flypaper. Will is used to feeling hollow—the void is an integral part of his character, and he's learned to fill it with blood and work and whisky. It has always been vast and shapeless, and his vices have never been more than round pegs in square holes.

But now, after a lifetime of searching, he's finally found a pleasure fluid enough to fill those hairline cracks. The memory has been diluted by time, but Will knows that once, for a few hours, he was whole.

He needs that feeling back.

Hannibal will be cooking for a while longer. Surely he won't notice if Will takes a peek in his medicine cabinet, just to see what's in there. He's not going to take anything; he just wants to look. Maybe there's a little bit of Vicodin left over from the hospital.

Will glances over his shoulder as he quietly opens the first drawer under the sink. He's not snooping—he's looking for  _his_ medication—but he'd rather not explain that to Hannibal. The drawer is full of bottles of expensive lotion and aftershave and whatever else Hannibal's stringent hygiene routine requires. The other one is full of extra toilet paper. He checks the cabinet under the sink, and the one next to the tub, and even braves the mirror for a moment to make sure it isn't a cupboard. It's not.

He should stop. He knows he should stop; the pills aren't here, but the parasitic idea has latched on to his brain stem. There has to be something. Codeine? They sell codeine over the counter in Europe, right?

The minutes tick by and Will grows desperate. He ransacks the bedside table, the chest at the foot of the bed, even the closet. Nothing.

“Will?”

He spins around to see Hannibal standing in the doorway.

“Oh, uh, yeah?” He stutters, closing the wardrobe. He's still in his dressing gown, and the flimsy tie around his waist suddenly seems like inadequate protection.

“Lunch is ready,” Hannibal says. He knows he's walked in on something—it's obvious in his tone—but maybe doesn't know what.

“Sorry, I was just looking for something to wear,” says Will.

Hannibal stands too close as he opens the wardrobe. “You should have waited for me,” he says. “I bought you some clothes. Let me find them.”

He fetches him a lightweight turtleneck and pressed chinos. Will changes while Hannibal's back is turned. Both articles hang a little loose.

“Hm,” he says, pinching the fabric at Will's shoulder. “These are made to your old measurements. I thought it rude to measure you while you were unconscious. It seems you've lost quite a bit of weight.”

Will shrugs. “They're fine. It doesn't mater.”

“Nevertheless, we'll have to put some meat on your bones if we're to take daytime excursions. Florence is a magnificent city surrounded by beautiful countryside; it would be a shame if you didn't get to see it during your recovery.”

“Oh,” Will groans. “You're already doing so much for me, really—”

“Nonsense,” says Hannibal. “I enjoy your company. You would be doing me a service by being my travel companion. Now, come along, before your meal gets cold.”

The villa is slightly smaller than he imagined, which is comforting in a way. He used to love wide-open spaces, but now the idea seems threatening. He sits at the dining table, which seats six but doesn't feel empty with just the two of them.

“For your first day awake in Italy, a traditional two-course  _pranzo._ ” Hannibal places a small plate in front of him. “Greek dolmades made with fresh grape leaves and local olive oil, with a side of  _frutti de bosco_ —seasonal berries, or 'fruits of the forest.'”

For once, Will's enthusiastic appetite is not just a polite compliment to the chef. It takes conscious effort to eat civilly rather than shovel blackberries and raspberries into his mouth by the handful.

Dolmades are, apparently, grape leaves stuffed with seasoned rice.“I've never seen these before,” he says, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “They're kind of like…Greek sushi, don't you think?”

Hannibal chuckles. “You could make that comparison, yes.”

Will takes a bite.

“In the Christian faith, grape leaves often adorn funeralia, a symbol of the joys of heaven and the triumph of life over death. Quite applicable.”

“I've triumphed over death?” He asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Life has triumphed over death,” Hannibal corrects. “Even I was beginning to lose faith that you would wake up.”

Will looks up from his food for the first time since he sat down. “I didn't know that I was comatose,” he says.

“Not comatose,” says Hannibal. “After the fire, paramedics determined that there was nothing physically wrong with you aside from some minor burns, which have healed over. But psychologically…you were simply vacant. It's an uncommon but precedented reaction to trauma. The brightest minds at Johns Hopkins speculated that you would never recover.”

He sets down his fork for a moment. “And who are you to disagree with the brightest minds at Johns Hopkins?”

He's expecting something characteristically grandiose, but Hannibal answers, “Nobody. A friend.”

“A friend,” Will repeats, almost to himself.

“Regardless, I didn't want you to spend the rest of your life in a locked ward, not when I have the time and means to care for you. We both know you don't take well to traditional therapy.”

“I guess I owe you even more gratitude than I thought,” Will says. “Thank you.” He tries to mean it. He almost means it—but stronger than gratitude, stronger even than grief, is the sickening, bone-deep guilt. He murdered his dogs, tried to kill himself, and now he's completely disrupted Hannibal's life as well? He's nothing but a burden. His life isn't worth the taxpayer dollars spent to preserve it.

Sensing, perhaps, the foul mood which has settled over the dinner table, Hannibal stands and whisks away Will's empty plate.

“Still hungry, I hope?”

Will forces a smile. “Always.”

“Then I trust you will enjoy our second course. Pork tenderloin Rosa di Parma, stuffed with prosciutto and local Parmigiano-Regianno.” He places the dish before Will: two small, mouthwateringly plump rolls of pork garnished with fresh sage leaves. He recognizes sage only because he frequents Hannibal's dinner table.

“Smells delicious,” he says, inhaling deeply. “Local pork?”

Hannibal takes his seat, lips quirking into a slight smile. “Imported,” he says, “but supple as they come.”

“I don't doubt it,” says Will. He waits for Hannibal to take the first bite, and then takes a bite of his own. He chews thoughtfully, analyzing the flavor—he wants to offer a better compliment than 'delicious,' because Hannibal has done so much for him, and Will can think of no other way to repay him at the moment.

It  _is_  delicious, though, as is all of Hannibal's cooking. The pork melts in his mouth. When he bites down the cheese bursts across his tongue—the sharp, savory taste, slightly nutty, perfectly compliments the meat's natural flavor.

“Amazing,” he says, flashing a genuine smile. “How do you get it so tender?”

Hannibal chuckles. “Do you really want to know, or are you being polite?”

“I really want to know,” Will says, though he is just being polite.

“The process is rather inhumane, but yields astounding results,” says Hannibal. “The pigs are kept completely immobile in tiny cages. Leave them long enough and the muscles begin to atrophy. The natural degradation of long proteins results in a significantly more tender cut.”

“Hm,” says Will. “That's sad.”

“Is it? Do the pigs know what’s happening to them?”

Will only shrugs. He's not in the mood to debate the finer points of animal cruelty.

When they’re done, he insists on clearing the table and washing the dishes. It’s literally the least he can do. 

He's still a little shaky, but the meal has restored a lot of his strength, so he takes Hannibal up on his tour offer. Hannibal beams with delight, which, for him, amounts to a tiny smile and a little spring in his step. If there's anything he loves, it's showing off. And he's good at it.

“I purchased this house shortly after retiring from surgery,” he says. “The stress of the job left me eager to relax and get away from it all. You've seen the oldest part—bedroom, kitchen, sitting room and dining room. This annex was added almost a hundred years later, when ownership of the property transferred from the bankrupt Allessandri family to the Rovigattis, originally from Rovigo, outside of Venice. They were avid gardeners, a tradition which I try my best to uphold, though the grounds are rather too large to tend by myself, and I employ a gardener on Mondays and Tuesdays. I’d prefer you refrain from speaking to her until you’ve fully recovered.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Will says.

“That’s just as well. This is the parlor,” he says, “and to your left is the old guest bedroom, which I have converted into a library.”

Will steps into the library, marvels once more at the hand-carved woodwork. The center of the room is dominated by a light blue couch, comfortingly reminiscent of the couch in Hannibal's office. The walls are lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, and books are piled on the writing desk against the far wall.

“Quite the collection,” Will says.

“Mostly in Italian. But if I recall correctly, you speak a little Italian.”

Will pulls a face. “A little,” he says. “Though I can't remember the past year of my life, so I'm not sure how well my vocabulary has fared.” The joke falls rather flat. Hannibal has never been one for self-deprecation.

“I'm sure it will come easily once you pick it up again,” he says. “Regardless, you are welcome to the entire collection—just be careful with the older books. Some of them are quite rare.”

Will nods. “Thank you.”

Then, without warning or provocation, Hannibal takes Will's face in one hand and presses the other against his forehead. Will can't help but flinch.

“Relax,” Hannibal says. “You seem unwell. How are you feeling?”

“Unwell,” Will admits. “My feet hurt. Er, foot.”

He keeps one hand on Will's shoulder. “Do you feel both of them?”

Will hesitates. “Phantom limb syndrome,” he says. “It's one of those things you read about, and in the back of your head you're thinking 'this will never happen to me.' Stupid in retrospect.”

“Not stupid,” says Hannibal. “A healthy extension of your self-preservation instinct. The mind is not equipped to handle every possibility at once. There is no way you could have prepared for what happened to you.”

He sighs, casting his eyes downward. “It still feels like it's my fault.”

“That’s common misconception among victims of violent crime,” says Hannibal. “One we can address in therapy this evening, if you're ready to talk about it.”

“I'm scared I'll never be ready to talk about it.”

Hannibal grips Will's chin and turns his face to look at him, a daring move which makes Will a little uncomfortable, though he brushes it off. “You are not your trauma,” he says. “I will help you overcome this.”

Will isn’t sure what to say. Hannibal's eyes bore into his like he's drilling for oil, something dark and toxic lurking under the surface. He's not going to like what he finds.

“For now, perhaps we will postpone touring the grounds. We have all the time in the world.”

“It's fine, I can go,” he says, knowing Hannibal won't allow it. Secretly he's grateful, and in pain.

“As your physician I'm advising you to rest,” says Hannibal. “A bath, perhaps?”

Will nods. “Please. I'm disgusting.”

~

He agreed to the bath without fully considering its implications. Hannibal insists on helping him, despite Will's assurance that he'll be fine on his own. Worse still, he can't bathe in his clothes. He's going to get a good look at his body whether he likes it or not, and he's terrified of what he'll see.

The basin fills with steaming water. He waits until the last possible second to disrobe, but can't wait forever. His hesitation must be painfully obvious.

“There is no need to be modest,” Hannibal says. “I had to do this for you while you were indisposed.”

Will doesn't want to think about Hannibal bathing his naked, uncooperative body. He doesn't want to be naked.

“William,” he admonishes.

His face flushes and he turns away, can't look at Hannibal as he slips the baggy turtleneck over his head and unbuttons his chinos, leaves them in a haphazard pile in the floor. Deep breath, then his underwear follow. That wasn't so bad.

What's bad is turning around to find Hannibal openly staring at him with an expression akin to hunger—entirely inappropriate coming from his psychiatrist. He meets Will's eyes, daring him to do something about it.

And what is Will going to do? He owes Hannibal so much, would likely be dead without him. Anything but submission to this challenge would be ungrateful, and more than he wants to protect his dignity, he wants to protect this tenuous, confusing relationship. Hannibal is all he has left now. He looks at his feet and steps toward the tub.

“Wait,” says Hannibal. “Your prosthetic.”

“Oh,” he says, reaching down to unstrap it—but Hannibal beats him to it. His fingers brush against the underside of Will's stump, making him flinch so hard that he almost falls over. He's not used to balancing on one leg, and he's definitely not used to sensation where there should be flesh. Hannibal shouldn't be able to put his hand there. He also shouldn't be able to sweep Will off his feet and lift him into the tub, but Will has lost something like forty pounds since he was last awake, and it's embarrassingly easy.

He sinks into the scalding heat. The water protects him. If he keeps his eyes closed and lets Hannibal do this, he won't have to look. Maybe he can just live with Hannibal for the rest of his life, and he'll never have to look.

Hannibal silently washes his hair. 

How many times has he washed Will’s hair? He doesn't even know how long he's been in Italy. Hell, he doesn't even know what month it is. There are a lot of questions he hasn't asked.

The water muffles Hannibal's voice. “I'm going to see how you're healing,” he says. His hands depart from Will's scalp and reappear moments later around one of his ankles. His only ankle.

He pokes his head out of the water just enough to hear properly, keeping his eyes closed. “Both feet were…wounded?”

“We have no way of knowing what was done to the left before it was amputated.” Hannibal's fingertips palpate his sole, and Will yelps at the unexpected pain that shoots up both legs.

“Bad?” He asks.

“Y-yeah,” Will says through gritted teeth. “Yeah. What happened to them?”

“It's difficult to say for sure, but when you were admitted to the hospital, you had second degree burns, lacerations, and shallow pinpoint wounds over the entire sole.”

He’s starting to feel sick. “Just the sole?”

“Your injuries were not incidental; they were inflicted with precision. To what end, I cannot say.”

Something snaps like a rubber band inside him, and his eyes snap open. “No end,” he spits like a curse. “The injuries are their own end.”

Hannibal releases his foot, allowing him to draw it up toward his chest. “Do you remember?” He asks. His voice is strangely calm, his words over-enunciated. “Recall for me.”

Will is all but knocked backward by a horrifying flash of insight.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans miserably, sinking back into the water. He wants it gone, out of his head, but it's all he can think about. Like he's there again. Like it's still happening.

“Will,” says Hannibal, his voice a light in the fog. “Recall for me.”

“No end,” he groans, breathless. “He didn't have a reason to do this. He was just…torturing me.”

“Torture is a both a physical and psychological destruction of self,” says Hannibal. “What did he want to from you?”

He screws his eyes shut, as if that will block out the images flooding his brain. “Nothing,” he croaks. “That's what I'm saying.”

There's that question again, the one he's afraid to ask, pressure on a raw nerve.

“You know who he is, don't you?”

He opens his eyes to find Hannibal watching him with a level gaze, that illusion of impartiality which never seems to let up.

“I know what he is,” says Hannibal. “So do you.”

~

“Please don't!”

Will's words are still lispy and poorly formed; his tongue has healed enough to allow speech, but only just. He speaks frequently and at length. “You said you'd help me—I'm  _listening,_ Hannibal, I'm doing everything you say! You promised you would help me forget.”

“I did,” Hannibal says, even as he padlocks the wooden stockades around Will's ankles.

He is frantic, struggling against the chair's lower body restraints. This time Hannibal has left his head and most of his torso free, so that with some effort he can sit up and watch what's happening to him. It's amusing to see him try. His fluttering abdominal muscles can only support him for about thirty seconds at a time, after which he collapses back onto the chair, takes a deep breath, and tries again. Each attempt is a little less effective.

“Don't hurt me anymore,” he whimpers. “You said we could g-get away. I want to leave with you. I want to s-start over—what are you doing? What are those?”

“Heat lamps,” Hannibal says.

Will's eyes widen; his words catch in his throat. He falls back, and then, trembling spastically, picks himself up again. “ _Please,_ ” he whines, voice cracking. “ _Please_ don't.”

Hannibal just smiles and cinches the secondary restraints on his feet. His big toes are bound together with a thin cord which Hannibal anchors to the board, keeping his feet motionless, pointed skyward, soles exposed.

“W-what,” Will croaks, and then he falls back again, too exhausted to finish his sentence. This time he doesn't get up.

Hannibal pats Will's thigh affectionately and flips on the sun lamps. “I have work to do,” he says. “I'm going to leave you to cook for a few hours, and then we'll talk about some more painkillers, hm?”

Will just sobs. If he knows what's good for him, he'll try to conserve fluids.

“I'll see you soon.” 

He ascends the stairs to the cellar and doesn't look back. Will's broken screams follow him all the way to the kitchen and disappear as he shuts the door.

~

“Describe it to me.”

“I don't want to describe it to you,” Will says. “I can't. I don't have the vocabulary.”

Hannibal takes a thoughtful sip of wine, an elegant pause to gather his thoughts. Will's glass rests empty on the carved end table. It's already scattered his thoughts—preferable to that black, unholy clarity.

“Physical pain often defies description,” Hannibal says. “We turn instead to the language of agency. We manifest our pain by attributing it to an outside source.  _Drilling_  pain,  _suffocating_  pain,  _sawing_  pain; we say, 'it feels as though I’m being run through with a hot poker,' though no such instrument is present. The weapon takes on the characteristics of our suffering. I believe it was Joseph Beuys who said, 'when you cut your finger, bandage the knife.'”

Will shakes his head. “I could distance myself from a weapon,” he says. “Hurl the knife away from myself. That would be easy. But it wasn't the the knife's pain; it was my pain. It was…all-consuming.”

Tense silence settles over them like smog as Hannibal shuffles through his notebook. A single sheet of paper, a diagram of the human body—bald, solid, universal. “This is the McGill pain index,” he says. “It's a diagnostic tool used to help patients communicate effectively with their carers. It may seem simplistic, but please humor me.”

He takes the paper, scans the columns of adjectives with narrowed eyes. “Flickering, quivering, pulsing, throbbing,” he reads aloud. His skeptical gaze flickers to Hannibal.

“I'd like you to first select one word from each group,” says Hannibal. He passes Will a pencil.

“Is this really necessary? I don’t want to think about it.”

Hannibal takes another sip of wine. “You cannot heal until you confront your pain,” he says. “Understand it. Explore its depths, and emerge stronger.”

He’s pretty sure that's not how it works, but then again, who is he to question Hannibal's expertise? Will is broken. Damaged goods. Hannibal is just trying to glue him back together.

He skims the list, ticking boxes on instinct. When he's done he reads them aloud:

“Throbbing, flashing, pricking, cutting, gnawing, wrenching, searing, stinging, aching, tender—” a breath, a longing glance to his empty glass “—exhausting, suffocating, terrifying, cruel, blinding, miserable, penetrating, tight, freezing, agonizing, horrible, constant.”

“Good,” Hannibal says. He's ticking boxes of his own, must have a copy of the chart in his files. “Now I'd like you to narrow it down. Choose three words from groups 1-10, two from 11-15, one from 16, and one from 17-20.”

He does so without comment. He has to admit that there is a sort of power in categorizing the experience. “Scalding, searing, tender,” he reads; “cruel, vicious. Miserable. Penetrating. What exactly is the point of this exercise?" It comes out a little more brusque than he intended, but Hannibal remains carefully unperturbed. 

“Physical pain does not simply resist language,” he says, “but actively destroys it. Pain triggers an immediate reversion to a state anterior to language, to the sounds and cries a human being makes before language is learned. You told me you lacked the vocabulary to describe what happened to you,” he says. “This is your vocabulary.”

“I know that book, Hannibal, the one you keep quoting but won't cite.  _The Body in Pain?_ ”

Hannibal smiles. It's sharp and dangerous. “With apologies to Elaine Scarry,” he says. “Her observations remain unparalleled even twenty years after publication.”

“She also said that the most crucial fact about pain is its _presentness_  and the most crucial fact about torture is that it is _happening_.” He meets Hannibal's eyes, takes the half-empty wine bottle from the coffee table, and pours himself another glass.  _Do something about it._

Hannibal doesn't.

“No matter how many adjectives I list off, you can't feel my pain because it didn't happen to you.”

“It seems there's been some miscommunication. Believe me when I say I have no desire to feel your pain, and if my questions devalue your experience, know that was not my intention. I am simply trying to help you remember.”

That guilt comes flooding back, fills Will's throat with bile. He sits down and bows his head, cradling the wine glass in his lap. “I remember something,” he says quietly. “I'll tell you if you think it will help.”

Hannibal nods. “Take your time.”

Will doesn't take his time. He wants to get it out, open the cage door and free this sickly, aching thing trapped inside him. “I don't know how long I was lying there,” he says. “Each second felt longer than the last.”

~

Burning is perhaps the worst of all discomforts, and Will is more qualified to judge than most.

A cut is clean; a knife severs tissue and departs. Heat obliterates. The bottoms of his feet itch, then swell, then blister, until every nerve is raw, burning agony. The pain steals his words and his breath and his voice, and leaves him only silent tears. He wants it to be over long before it is over—and when it is, predictably, it is not.

He shudders in relief when the lamps switch off and the overhead lights flicker to life. Cool air sends tingles up his spine, a joyous respite from the slow-building, tissue-deep burn.

“T-thank you,” he croaks. Then, “W-water.”

He remains still as an IV is inserted into his arm. They'd talk about painkillers. That's what Hannibal said. Will holds his breath. But the drip is only saline, and it revitalizes his body but doesn't really quench his thirst.

“No need to sit up,” Hannibal says. He was planning nothing of the sort.

A finger brushes against his tender sole. He flinches violently.

“Sensitive,” says Hannibal. “I suppose you aren't going to like this very much.”

His eyes flicker open, his mouth flirts with a formless question. A quiet swoosh, and sharp, excruciating pain slams into him like a freight train. It forces all the the air out of his lungs. For a moment he can't scream; his throat works but no sound comes out. Then, nearly a full second later, a terrible, ear-splitting wail.

Something passes over his face, thin and shiny and almost indistinguishable from the ceiling above. “This is a radio antenna,” says Hannibal. His voice is distorted and distant; his words are meaningless. “You've burned quite nicely; we're off to a good start, but I was hoping for something a bit more…tender.”

“Nn—n-no,” Will pants. Each syllable is a struggle. “D-don't, H-h—”

“Don't?” Hannibal repeats. Then he administers five light strokes in quick succession, across both feet at once.

Will howls his misery, desperate and organic. “ _No!_ No more,” he pants, struggling for breath. “H-Hannibalpleasenomore, fuck me _fuck me fuck me_ , p-please stop; f-fuck my ass, rape me, come inside me pleasepleaseplease—AAAUUGHHHHHH!” The next flight of lashes brings his pleading to an abrupt end.

“You must be confused," says Hannibal. "I can use your body any time I see fit, so you have nothing to offer me but your consent, which is frankly unimportant. If I wanted to  _rape_  you, Will, I would be doing so already.”

Will sobs, but he doesn't bother begging after that. He doesn't count the blows. He doesn't think, can't think, can't compartmentalize or dissociate or do anything but experience the pain with every fiber of his being, feel it and feel it and pray for death.

When it's over, minutes or hours later, he's sure that he's bleeding out. The soles of his feet feel like raw hamburger. He closes his eyes and barely exists, could be dead if it weren't for the stubborn rise and fall of his chest.

“We're almost finished,” Hannibal murmurs. “One small addition, and then you can have some water and morphine.”

A cool, soft disinfectant wipe drags across the bottoms of his feet, almost pleasant in the few seconds before the alcohol stings his damaged flesh. He whimpers, but the sting is nothing compared to Hannibal's “small addition”—a sharp, shallow pinprick on the arch of his right foot, like a bee sting. Then another, about a centimeter lower. And another. And another.

He's exhausted, but he needs to know what's happening, so he takes a few deep breaths and forces himself to sit up, abdominal muscles spasming with the effort. He gets a quick glance before falling back again, desperately sucking oxygen into his lungs. Hannibal is knelt at the foot of the bench. To his left is an alcohol swab and a box of silver tacks, the kind Will would use to pin crime scene photos to his cork board. He disinfects the pins one at a time and pushes them into the soles of his feet in even lines. 

Will can't cry anymore. He can only breathe, and he does, in sharp little pants and great gasps that he is powerless to stop.

Hannibal is meticulous. He pushes each pin about three quarters of the way into Will's flesh before moving on to the next one. The pain is intermittent but unrelenting. The irregular intervals between pricks are driving him insane. 

It ends, when Will has more than a fifty tacks in each foot, but it takes him a very long time to stop anticipating the next one. His mind is clouded and heavy. His feet pulse.

“Time to sit up,” Hannibal says.

Will doesn't move, not out of obstinance, but out of sheer exhaustion. He's grateful when Hannibal picks him up, supports his upper body with one arm, and unfastens the restraints. He lifts Will's ankles out of the stocks and helps him swing them off the bench.

“I imagine you'd like some morphine.”

The words sink into his brain in fragments. “Morphine,” Will repeats. That's the only one he understands.

Hannibal chuckles. “I've already prepared your shot; sit with me on the stairs and I'll inject it.”

What does that mean? He dully watches Hannibal cross the room, retrieve the needle, sit on the steps a few feet away, and pat his thigh. “Come along.”

He blinks a few times and shakes his head. “I can't.”

“You will if you want your morphine. And you will walk, not crawl. If I see you crawl I'll assume it's because you can manage the pain just fine on your own.”

“I _can't,_ ” he insists, panic pulling his throat tight and thinning his voice. “Please, I can't. Please don't make me.”

“You can,” says Hannibal. “Step off the table in the next ten seconds or this medicine goes down the drain.”

That spurs him into action. Will needs that morphine, needs it more than he needs food or water or air. He gingerly lowers his feet to the floor, whines like a dog as the hard concrete drives the pins a little further into his body.

“Five seconds,” says Hannibal.

There's no adjusting to this. Like jumping into cold water, he just has to do it. As gently as he can manage, Will shifts his weight from the table to his feet. He wails as the first step drives the pins all the way in, until they're embedded a full half inch in his angry, throbbing soles. He collapses with a sickening thud.

“Good,” says Hannibal. “Now stand up. Keep walking.”

It takes three attempts to get his feet under him, and as soon as he's up he falls backwards, catching himself on the bench at the last second. The space between him and Hannibal stretches out into eternity, wide as the ocean and just as impossible to bridge. He can't do it.

“ _Hannibal,_ ” he begs.

“It's less than ten feet, Will. Show some initiative.”

He stumbles forward a few paces, falls to his knees again. He wants so badly to crawl, might even endure Hannibal's wrath for the opportunity, but won't jeopardize his painkillers. He drags himself up again, steps forward, collapses. He is Sisyphus, his own useless body the boulder which he must push ever forward.

When he reaches the stairs at long last, he clutches the hem of Hannibal's dress pants in a weak fist.

“Well done,” says Hannibal. He holds a cup of water to Will’s lips. Bloody footprints trail from the chair to the bottom step.

That doesn't matter. It’s over now. Hannibal is swabbing his IV port clean, is plunging the needle into the rubber, is squeezing that sweet relief into his burning veins. Will holds on to his lapel for dear life and counts the seconds—three, two, one. Bliss.

~

“You aren't exhibiting any signs of narcotic withdrawal,” Hannibal says, “though that would explain the symptoms I noticed when we first arrived in Italy. The hospital prescribed pain relief, but of course such measures cannot be permanent.”

“Do you have any left?”

The words leave Will's mouth all at once before he can stop them. Hannibal frowns.

“Will,” he says gently, “I understand that you were given the drugs without your consent, but the fact remains that you were  _heavily_  addicted.”

Will looks at his feet—foot—clad only in thin cotton socks. The wounds have faded to thick white scars, but it still hurts to stand. He tries to exorcise the memory of that bliss, mind-blowing euphoria coupled with a complete absence of pain, but now that it's back in his head it doesn't want to leave again.

“It's normal for you to be craving another hit,” Hannibal says. “Unfortunately, that is a side effect which will last for a very long time. But no matter what, you _cannot_ give in to the cravings. You survived months of torture, but I'm afraid a relapse could destroy you.”

Will takes a swig of his wine and frowns. If he needs to get drunk during therapy, maybe therapy isn’t going so well.

“At the very least, it would erase all of the progress you've made. I say this not to devalue the strength of your survival instinct, but because it would break my heart to see that instinct crushed.”

He wants to leave, lock himself in the bathroom, curl up in a ball. Mostly he wants morphine, and that makes him feel weak and sick and disgusting.

“You said he dosed you after every session?”

“I'm not sure,” Will says. “I don't remember much outside of what I just told you. I remember taking it a lot, maybe every two days, just long enough for me to start withdrawing. I remember how bad the pain got when he wouldn't give it to me. He made me do awful things for every hit. I don't remember most of them.”

“Nor do I expect you to,” says Hannibal. “You've made astounding progress today.”

“Thanks,” Will says hollowly. Then, “I'm exhausted. What time is it?”

“Seven thirty,” Hannibal says without even glancing at his watch.

Will finishes his wine, places the empty glass on the coffee table, stands. He stretches his arms above his head and twists his torso, cracks his back—he's so sore, just  _everywhere_ , but especially his feet. “Think I could turn in early?”

Hannibal stands and collects the bottle and glasses on their silver serving tray. “Of course,” he says. “You need your rest. But I must insist you eat dinner before we retire.”

“I feel like I just ate,” Will says with a grimace. He’s nauseous, and food is the last thing on his mind right now.

“You are healing,” says Hannibal. “You need nutrition. Do you know how much you weighed when we found you?”

Will scowls.

“One hundred and seven pounds,” says Hannibal. “Captivity robbed you of your vigor.”

“Alright,” he says, just because he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. “I'll eat. What's for dinner?”

~

He isn't hungry. He hasn't been hungry since that first dose of morphine, really, but he knows too well the consequences of refusing food. He'd rather force himself to eat than have that tube forced down his throat again.

So he's strapped to a dining chair at the wrists and ankles, awaiting the big reveal: pistachio and mint encrusted lamb chops with Hannibal's famous prosciutto roses, a.k.a. slow-roasted people with nice side of human meat. Will doesn't care anymore. At first he searched for a sliver of revulsion—the decent thing to feel—but nobody’s watching except Hannibal, and he isn’t decent. 

He's revolted by the restraints, though. During his first solid meal since the tongue incident, he hurled his steak knife at Hannibal's head only to watch it bounce feebly off the cabinet behind him. Since then he's been hand fed. Hannibal sits too close and makes polite conversation as he cuts Will's 'lamb' into bite-sized chunks and brings each one to his lips.

Satisfaction radiates off him in waves—if Will can't be happy himself, he can at least appreciate Hannibal's happiness. It’s not hard to understand the self-aggrandizing pleasure he gets from feeding him his trophies. It's power over his victims, the thrill of desecrating and consuming their bodies, and it's power over Will. This act, the consumption, is a triumph they can share.

After dinner he endures something Hannibal calls “stimulus therapy,” which is definitely a term he made up. It involves immobilizing Will from head to toe, of course, and forcing him to stare at a luminescent metronome for hours on end while pre-recorded audio blares from his bulky, noise-canceling headphones.

At first Will tried to block it out, but that was a lot of work for zero payoff. Hannibal's deep, melodic voice drills into his skull and embeds itself in his brain. He's never made it past the induction without losing himself in the warm, comfortable void of hypnotic suggestion, but he knows how it starts:

“As you listen to my voice, your body grows more and more relaxed. With each word your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. You want to close your eyes and focus only on the pulsing light and the sound of my voice. You feel your heart begin to beat in time with the metronome. Heavier and heavier. Each passing second draws you deeper and deeper into relaxation.”

It goes on like this for hours. When he was still resisting, he sat through at least five repetitions of the thirty-minute track before falling asleep, or into a trance, or whatever. There's no reason to subject himself to that kind of boredom, not when it's so easy to surrender. Hannibal's voice guides him into the gentle stream in his mind's eye. Nobody has been able to follow him there before.

Now he and Hannibal sit together on the rocky bank, their fishing lines tethering them to the water like umbilical cords. They don't speak. A faint tinkle of piano drifts in from somewhere far away, out beyond the trees.

~

Somehow, Hannibal knows what kind of toothpaste Will likes. It's cinnamon. He brushes his teeth.

The bed looks soft and inviting, cream and a royal red comforter with gold embroidery. Will wants nothing more than to collapse in the middle of it and sleep until the second coming, but he can't. The thought of going to bed alone, something he's done thousands of times, makes his stomach clench.

“Hannibal?” He asks. His voice echoes off the polished hardwood floor of the corridor, making the space seem larger than it is, making Will feel small.

Hannibal is reclining on the sofa, feet propped up on one arm, answering emails on his tablet. It's a vulnerable position, and Will is momentarily taken aback.

“Can I help you?” He asks, glancing up.

“Uh, no. I mean,” Will takes a moment to compose himself. “It's just, you said you converted the guest bedroom into a library, and I was. I was wondering where you were going to sleep.”

_Oh god._ He tries to suppress the blush rising from his chest. He shouldn't have said anything.

Hannibal gracefully swings his feet off the sofa. He could never pull that off with his own unbalanced legs. “The couch is spacious,” he says.

“Right,” says Will. He scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tic which does nothing to calm his nerves. “It's just, I mean. That can't be very comfortable.” Christ, Will,  _stop_  it.

But Hannibal smiles and powers off his tablet, sets it on the coffee table. “Will, if you're lonely, you need only ask.”

“That's not what I—I mean, I'm not—” he tries to backpedal, actually takes a step backward, but just ends up bumping into the door frame. He's not lonely.

“Loneliness is not a fault,” says Hannibal. “I confess, I spend most nights in the chair at your bedside.”

This catches him off guard. “What? Really?”

“When I first brought you here, I'd often awaken to you talking in your sleep, sometimes screaming. You couldn’t acknowledge me coherently, but the sound of my voice seemed to calm you down. After the prolonged isolation you've endured, it's completely understandable if you don't want to be alone.”

Something about his voice steadies Will's frantic heartbeat, guillotines the doubt fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Hannibal always knows how to diffuse the situation. It's infuriating.

“I'm sorry,” Will says.

“Never apologize to me for caring for yourself, Will. Go to bed, and I will join you shortly.”

This wasn't how he pictured this conversation going, but the way Hannibal says it,  _go to bed_ —it's a command, not a suggestion. And what is Will supposed to do, revoke the offer when he was the one who brought it up? That would be incredibly rude.

He chokes out a quick “thanks,” and retreats into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

It's safer in here. The light is warmer; the plush red carpet is gentle on his battered feet—er, foot. That reminds him that he's still wearing his prosthetic, so he sits on the bed and unbuckles the strap. His hands are shaking so badly that it takes three tries to slip the belt over his knee.

It's still unsettling to watch his leg separate from his body. He caresses the aching stump and wonders about the amputation. Was he awake? Did his captor use a bone saw, or maybe some kind of power tool? The Ripper is a surgeon, so he probably did it by the books. But _why?_ Did one of Will's feet get infected, or was it purely for enjoyment? What did he do with the leg?

This isn’t a productive train of thought. He burrows into the covers as if Egyptian cotton can offer him some protection from the outside world. If he doesn't look at his leg he can sort of pretend it's still there—it still _feels_ like it's there, prickling with pins and needles, and nothing indicates otherwise save the way the comforter flattens just below his knee.

He tries to think about something else, anything else, but just ends up replaying his conversation with Hannibal over and over, fixating on all the things he should have said. He's not going to get a wink of sleep now.

He's never shared a bed platonically. It occurs to him too late that he can't sleep in this bathrobe, so he tosses it onto the chair, but that leaves him exposed in just his underwear.  


Maybe there are pajamas in the wardrobe? To get to the wardrobe he'll have to stand up, and to do that he needs his leg, and by the time he gets that on again Hannibal will be ready for bed and will walk in on him trying to change and  _that_  will be embarrassing. He's considering crawling when the door swings open, and is immediately glad that he didn't.

Hannibal is also in his bathrobe, royal blue with a gold monogrammed  _HL_  on the left breast pocket. He slips it off and hangs it on the back of the door, leaving him in his underwear. Their eyes meet, and Will is afraid for a second that they’ll have to confront the elephant in the room—but the moment ends, and there is no confrontation. Hannibal slips into bed, firmly on his side of the obvious, invisible line, and rolls over to face him.

He's waiting for Will to speak, but what is he expected to say? He feels cosmically insignificant under Hannibal's scrutiny. Hannibal has this way of entirely occupying a space like liquid flowing into the shape of its container. Will opens his mouth but can't find the appropriate words, so he just tells the truth.

“I'm scared to sleep.”

Hannibal nods, because he knows that. “Tell me about your nightmares.”

He doesn't think talking about it will help prevent them, but Hannibal's the one with the med degree. He shrugs. “Before any of this happened they were pretty standard,” he says. “You know, falling, being trapped. I drowned a lot, maybe twice a week.”

“You are a sailor and a fisherman,” says Hannibal. “You are in awe of the sea, and awe is the intersection of reverence and fear.”

“I don't fear the ocean,” says Will. “I have…a healthy respect for its power.”

He can't help but see a little bit of that power reflected back at him like sunbeams off the turbulent sea, vast and unfathomable. He's not afraid of the ocean, but he's more than a little afraid of being swallowed up in Hannibal.

“What do you fear?”

“I used to fear my own death,” he says. “The uncertainty of it. Any time, any place, no idea what happens next. But since I was—” the word gets caught in his throat. He has to swallow it and try again. “Since I was…tortured, dying doesn't bother me much anymore.”

Hannibal is silent. He adjusts his pillow, getting comfortable—strangely human, incongruent with his Hannibal schema—and then pulls the cord on the wall sconce, plunging them into darkness. Night softens the sharp edges of Hannibal's form, makes Will bolder.

“You aren't afraid of death?” Hannibal asks, voice quieting to meet the new, dimmer atmosphere.

He shakes his head. “Everyone is afraid of death,” he says. “I said I wasn't afraid of my own.”

Without warning, Hannibal's hand crosses the invisible barrier and settles on Will's forearm, making him tense. He makes no move to draw away, though his trauma intervention training should absolutely tell him otherwise. Will's entire body is rigid. His handprint, that single point of contact between the two of them, is white hot.

“You dream about committing murder,” Hannibal says. It's not a question.

Will doesn't trust himself to speak. He breathes harshly in the pitch blackness.

“These dreams,” Hannibal says. “They are not nightmares, but you fear them nonetheless.”

Will’s voice wavers. “They only scare me when I'm awake.”

Hannibal's hand twitches at their point of connection, slowly strokes up the length of Will's arm and back down to his wrist, over and over. “Tonight you have nothing to fear,” he says. “And in the morning, I will be here to chase your fear away.”

He relaxes minutely. He doesn't want those words to reassure him, doesn't want Hannibal so deeply ingrained in his support system that his absence would surely bring it crashing down, but he doesn't get to choose the things that bring him comfort. Hannibal's hand on his shoulder, urging him onto his side, drawing him closer—he doesn't choose that, but he allows it.

He nestles into the hard, burning vitality of Hannibal’s body. The safety of his embrace is redolent of a family Will can never see again, and a home that exists only as ash scattered in a distant field. He sleeps.

~

“Remember that this cannot kill you.”

It's supposed to be reassurance, but it sounds like a threat. It's the worst thing Hannibal could possibly tell him—there is no escape from this suffering. I will not allow you the respite of death.

At first Will thinks the anticipation is the worst part. Dread pools like liquid nitrogen in his stomach as Hannibal ties a thin towel around his face, covering his nose and mouth. His hands twitch in their restraints, scrambling for purchase that he will not find. His head is pounding. Lying inverted as he is, feet a little higher than his head, blood rushes away from his extremities and pulses behind his eyes. 

He screams into his gag, the only thing he ever says anymore: _Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal._

“Hush, William,” Hannibal says, crouching to Will's level. The restraints keep his head fixed rigidly forward, so he can only see him from the corner of his eye. He pleads in wordless, high-pitched whimpers.

“No need to worry. Just relax and enjoy the performance.” Hannibal lays a delicate kiss on his eyebrow, and then lifts the jug of water.

Will breathes in until his lungs are stretched to bursting, and the torrent begins. Water saturates the cloth and seeps into his nostrils. He breathes out as slowly as possible. With his head tilted back at almost forty-five degrees, all he can see is Hannibal's thighs and lower torso: his shirt perfectly tucked and ironed, his cream colored tie ending in the exact center of his belt buckle, and an insistent bulge disrupting his otherwise flawless silhouette.

He runs out of air in less than fifteen seconds. The anticipation was nothing.  _This_  is the worst part, cold water flooding his throat and sinus cavities. It fills his entire head, making him heavy, and then creeps up his trachea, teasingly close to his lungs.

His frantic gasps only suck the sopping wet cloth tight against his face—and here comes the inevitable panic attack, gripping his chest and squeezing the life out of him. Just as his vision begins to blur, Hannibal whips the towel off his face. 

Water sprays from Will's nose and mouth. He sucks in a tiny, wet sip of air before the cloth is replaced and the pouring resumes. Hannibal's hand is steady, the stream even and unrelenting. He exhales until he can't and then starts swallowing on reflex, gulping down the icy water like a man stranded in the Sahara. No matter how much he drinks, there is always more.

The stream stops, Hannibal removes the cloth, and Will vomits all over himself. Hannibal lets him breathe for maybe fifteen seconds before he starts again. He forces gallons of water into Will's body, crowding out every last sliver of resistance. Will knows he's not really drowning; he's not really dying, but his body can't tell the difference, and his life flickers before his eyes: a cabin, a lecture hall, a tight plexiglass coffin.

“Please,” he wails, entirely wasting his next full breath. “N-no more, mercy, mercy!”

Perhaps just to be contrary, Hannibal drowns him one more time before unstrapping Will's head from the table. He slips one hand behind his skull and tilts it forward, allowing the water to gush out of his nose and mouth. Will sobs, heaves violently and soaks himself further. He's swallowed so much that it's coming up completely clear now.

When he's spent, Hannibal releases his head to flop back against the reclined board. Will is thrust into another panic attack, the eighth or ninth in so many minutes. He feels like his heart is going to burst, but is far more afraid that it won't.

“Well done,” says Hannibal. “You can rest for fifteen minutes, and then we'll try again.”

“N-no, no, no,  _nonono_ —”

“Relax,” Hannibal chuckles, spreading his hand over Will's naked, heaving chest. “You're alright, William; I won't let you die.”

Will doesn't listen, can't listen, can only scream and scream at the top of his lungs. It's a terrifying, animal sound, visceral and penetrating like the slow slide of a dull knife into muscle. Hannibal reassures him in soft tones, but Will can't hear him, because he's forgotten how to translate human speech into coherent ideas—his mind is empty of everything except vile, nauseating terror. He screams over Hannibal's gentle urges to awareness. He screams until he tastes blood, and then he has to stop, spit red, keep making noise. 

Finally Hannibal relents. He unbuckles the rest of the restraints, and that at least prompts Will to listen. He's saying:

“Calm down. Deep breaths, Will. Are you listening? Breathe with me. Breathe in, hold it, hold it—there you go, good boy. Now let it out. Very good. Once more. Breathe in—” and on like that, until Will has his lungs and heart under control, and he can see again through the red fog.

The first thing he sees is the obscene bulge in Hannibal's trousers, inches from his face. The idea that he could possibly be aroused by Will's suffering makes him want to vomit, and he tries, but there's nothing left in his stomach. He sits up, wraps his arms around himself, and squeezes until the violent shivering subsides.

He sobs for a good ten minutes. Hannibal lets him; he doesn't interfere or say a word. At long last Will pulls himself together enough to turn and face him. He has to force himself to look. Hannibal's eyes betray nothing but dark amusement.

“Are you ready to continue?” He asks, easy, like he's just offering Will another glass of wine.

Will is frozen. “Nn, nn,” he whimpers. He wracks his brain for the right words, for any words that will keep that abhorrent water out of his lungs, but his capacity for speech has completely abandoned him.

So he does the only thing he can think to do: he rolls off the bench, drops to his battered knees. Desperate, almost reverent, he shuffles forward and wraps his arms around the back of Hannibal's legs, nuzzling insistently into his crotch.

Hannibal remains motionless and waits to see what will happen. Will rubs his face against the hard bulge of his cock, mouth open. He breathes through the fabric, tries to share the very limited warmth of his body. His hands scrabble ineffectively at Hannibal's belt. After a few seconds of getting nowhere, Hannibal pushes them away.

“Tell me what you want, Will.”

Will is wide-eyed, a deer in the headlights—worse than that. He's a mangled, broken thing, already under the front wheels, ripped open and spread haphazardly across the asphalt.

“D-don't—” he stutters. “D-don't hurt m-m-me. No m-more, n-no m-more—”

“What do you  _want,_ ” Hannibal repeats impatiently.

He struggles for the words, wracks his brain to the point of physical pain. “U-use me,” he begs. “F-fuck my throat, Hannibal, p-please…”

Hannibal's appreciative little hum is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. It's Claire De Lune; it's the verdict of innocence which frees Will from certain death. He takes Hannibal's belt in hand with renewed vigor, calms his trembling long enough to slip it over his hips.

Will can't wait on the silk boxers; he immediately starts mouthing and licking and sucking at every part of Hannibal he can reach. Hannibal allows this for a few moments before he yanks Will’s face away to slip out of his underwear.

His cock bounces thick and heavy against Will's cheek. As soon as Hannibal lets go of his hair, he darts forward and swallows it all in one enthusiastic motion.

Hannibal groans. It sounds involuntary, and it makes Will proud.

He grips the backs of Hannibal's thighs for leverage. Will is driven by unshakeable, life-affirming determination. He worships Hannibal's cock with his mouth, loud and messy and desperate, swallowing, gagging, tears still dripping down his face. He doesn't let up for even a second. He doesn't allow a single thought to enter his head. Nothing exists but Hannibal—his salvation—and Will's burning, relentless desire to live.

~

They don't speak at breakfast. There is tension in the air, palpable as the floor beneath Will's feet, as the omelette he eats but doesn't taste.

This morning Will woke up shaking, almost convulsing, and clinging to Hannibal with the tenacity of snapping turtle, whose locked jaws only tighten in death. Sweaty, sobbing, stinking of fear. Hannibal can still smell it on him. Every once in awhile his nostrils twitch. He thinks Will doesn't notice, but he does.

Will recognizes that this rage is misdirected. He's not angry at Hannibal, who is just concerned for his wellbeing—but  _god_  is he angry. It's vitriolic, toxic waste bubbling inside him, billows of noxious gas obscuring such trivialities as courtesy and tact. He has to let it out. He can't wait another second.

“I sucked his cock,” Will blurts. Hannibal's eyes snap to his, ears pricking, haunches raised. “He made me do it, once, and then he made me want to do it.”

“He…violated you?” Hannibal asks. He's been waiting for this confession since they untangled their bodies this morning, and Will scrubbed himself raw in the shower.

“More than that,” he says. “I had a dream, last night, that wasn't actually a dream. He waterboarded me, over and over, until I begged him to rape me instead.”

Hannibal pauses, no doubt choosing his words carefully. “Coerced consent is not consent,” he says at last. “He stole something from you, Will, but that you're here now proves to me you're strong enough to survive without it.”

“I don't feel strong,” says Will. “I just feel…empty.”

Hannibal sets his fork and knife neatly across his plate, finishes the last gulp of his fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, and pushes his chair out from the table. “I think some fresh air might help clear your head,” he says.

Will stands without comment, eager to get out of this suddenly stifling dining room. He's too sick to eat.

An arched wooden door opens onto the patio. The gentle breeze is unfamiliar; air smells different here. Clean. He wonders when he was last outside.

Hannibal closes the door behind him. He is a silent presence at Will's back, always standing too close. They're at the top of gentle hill overlooking the water. Gulls circle overhead. Between the steps and the lake stretches an endless tapestry of blooming flowers, greenery, and terracotta.

“Is this all yours?” Will asks.

“Everything but the lake.” Hannibal's voice is even closer than he expects. Will whips around to face him.

Hannibal rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. It doesn't make sense—he's a therapist; he should understand why physical contact sets Will's teeth on edge.

“The property extends two acres in either direction,” he says. “Of course, you’re welcome to explore the grounds at your leisure, except on Mondays and Tuesdays, when my gardener works.”

Will nods shakily. “Thanks.”

“Walk with me,” says Hannibal, descending the first few steps toward the lake. He follows without question. He's not wearing any shoes, but the stone is smooth and warm under his scarred feet. Foot.

Hannibal says, “It may be painful to remember the details of your experience. It may be difficult, or perhaps some memories seem to have disappeared completely.”

“I like it that way.”

“Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise,” says Hannibal. “From Thomas Gray's ‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.’ The phrase is often misinterpreted to justify apathy, but examined in context its implication is quite the opposite. Gray's 'bliss' is the naive innocence of youth, a pleasant but ultimately unsustainable distraction.”

He inhales the sweet scent of blooming jasmine and rosemary. “Hannibal?” He asks. “Why...why do I feel so guilty all the time?”

Their footsteps are irregular, clack of Hannibal's shoes followed by the silent pad of Will's foot, and then the heavier impact of the rubber prosthetic. “Your actions,” says Hannibal, “whatever actions you took, were borne of necessity. They were not choices. Your guilt may have no basis in reality or logic, but that makes it no less legitimate. The only way to find out is to remember.”

Will scowls. “I can't,” he says.

“Repressed memories are not lost. They are simply obscured.” Hannibal's voice adopts that odd, stilted tone. “Recall for me.”

Memory slams into him, a cocktail of sights and sounds and emotions he doesn't want and can't contextualize.

“Oh,” he groans, a dejected, miserable noise. He takes a step backwards, sits hard on the clay landing. “No, Jesus.”

“William?” Crouching too close, hands on his shoulders and neck and hair and everywhere,  _stop stop stop don't touch me_ —

“I don't—” Will pleads, “I can't—”

“You don't have to let it all out at once,” says Hannibal. “I want you to try and remember the events objectively. It might even be easier to imagine them happening to someone else—to me, if you like. _Recall for me._ ”

Will takes a deep breath, does as he's told—

—pressing Hannibal into the mattress, weak body trapped under Will's weight. Hot, slick, scarred tongue in his mouth; languid, delicate, trusting. He thinks this room is safe; he thinks Will won't hurt him here because this is where Will loves him, on these silk sheets yet unstained by his fragrant blood.

Then comes the careful grip on his left index finger, the moment of realization. “No no no wait, wait,” and the brittle, satisfying snap and the wail of agony, sharp pain shooting up Hannibal's arm and pooling thick and black as tar in Will's groin. He kisses the fracture, sucks the ruined finger into his mouth. So pure when he's hurting—

“ _Hannibal,_ ” Will moans. He's wild-eyed, half hard, sick with guilt. “Oh god, I didn't mean to—”

“You didn't,” Hannibal says firmly, solid grip on his shoulders. “Look at me. You're in my garden, on Lago di Bilancino. You've done nothing wrong.”

But Will knows what he's done, what was done to him, where to find that razor-thin line between the two. He looks at his hands and doesn't know how he missed the crooked bend of his fingers before, four on the right and three on the left. He can still feel damp silk sliding against his back, the sickening heat of a fracture and a tongue.

~

If psychopathy is a lack of empathy, Will should be able to say with conviction that he is not a psychopath. If he were a mechanic, or a gas station attendant, maybe he could say that.

But this job infiltrates his psyche in ways he doesn't want to acknowledge. It permeates the transient safety of his daily life, seeps into the cracks and spreads its roots until one day, a Thursday, he follows somebody home. He crouches in the underbrush and scopes out the house with binoculars and thinks, if this isn't crazy, I don't know what is.

It's about convenience, not demographics, but given the choice he prefers white men. Women and minorities have it hard enough without Will's attentions, and besides, white guys are easy. They think they're invincible.

Prichard C. Johnson certainly does, if his unbolted patio door is anything to go by, and Will cannot  _wait_  to prove him wrong.

He slips catlike into the kitchen. The drying rack by the sink contains only unmatched articles: a single spoon, a single mug, a single plate, all signs pointing to a single man. Three floors is a lot of space for one person. Maybe he used to have a family. What's important is that he doesn't now. He has four beds and only one of them unmade, four wardrobes and three of them empty. He wonders what happened, if Pritchard left his wife or if she left him. If he deserved it.

He could euthanize unwanted pets for fun and still wouldn't deserve what Will is going to do to him. Not tonight, of course—Will wants to wait until it feels right, because the first time should be special—but soon. Tonight he searches kitchen drawers until he finds the spare key to the garage, just in case the patio door is a fluke, and then drives twenty minutes back to Wolf Trap, his entire body throbbing with anticipation.

He's looking forward to the kill, but he's even more excited for the reaction. A _lot_ of people are going to notice, and if everything goes according to plan, one particular person is going to be very impressed.

But things don't go according to plan. They rarely do. On Friday night he feeds his dogs, brushes his teeth, searches in vain for a few stray milligrams of Valium, downs a double shot of whisky instead. He falls asleep on the couch, too fast, and awakens in hell.

~

The devil is a practiced kisser, and even in these dire circumstances, Will can't help but yield under his touch. After all, this is the same man he has been fantasizing about for months, ever since Will saw him wrist-deep in vital organs in the back of a stolen ambulance—a clue, in retrospect. Hannibal is still the same person who brought him Silkie chicken soup in the hospital, who witnessed Will's first murder and, in some respects, facilitated it.

But now he's also the artist whose work has the singular capacity to keep Will awake for days, and whose masterful manipulation of the human form inspired Will to break into a man's house with the intention of orchestrating his execution. He'd never say it out loud, but he thinks he was always a little in love with the Ripper.

Vulnerability, not love, draws him into Hannibal's bedroom that night.

Just as he starves Will to compel him to eat the flesh of his victims, he denies Will affection, attention, and sometimes all human contact so he’ll accept Hannibal's touch with enthusiasm. Every sliver of basic decency begins to feel like a gift.

Will isn't stupid; he knows what this is. Capture bonding. Stockholm syndrome. A pattern of behavior which is well documented and easy to discern. Unfortunately, discerning does not equate to  _resisting_ —Hannibal's methods are too relentless, too practiced; the abuse has gone on far too long for Will to muster even token defiance.

Hannibal carries him bridal style up the winding staircase, and Will nuzzles into his shoulder, inhaling his earthy cologne. He deposits him gently on the bed, pinions him with his weight, kisses him for the first time. The kindness feels so good that he wants to cry. His mouth falls open in a contented sigh.

Kissing is different with scars on his tongue. The absence of sensation is as sweet as sensation itself. They kiss until Will is lightheaded, and then Hannibal's mouth travels lower, across his naked chest and concave abdomen. He looks up, smiling mischievously, and licks the head of Will's cock.

It's not his fault he gets hard. For once he is sober and not in pain—well, not in unbearable pain—and even the constant, dull ache in his feet dissolves as Hannibal wraps his lips around him.

The irony of getting a blowjob from a cannibal is not lost on him, but he doesn't care. If Hannibal decides to bite his dick off—a very real possibility—Will can't stop him, so there's no point in worrying about it. He keeps his hips still and his hands to himself out of self-preservation, but he moans unabashedly and begs Hannibal for more.

He's nearing the edge, eyes squeezed shut, when Hannibal releases his cock with a wet pop.

“Ohh,” Will moans, “please, please,” and he's begged Hannibal for a lot of things but doesn't think he's ever meant it this much.

“Patience,” Hannibal says with a smile. He reaches for the bedside table. “Close your eyes.”

He obeys without question, even though Hannibal could have anything in that drawer, scalpels or knives or a fucking blowtorch. He's not expecting a spritz of cologne to the face. 

A giggle, just because it's the first remotely funny thing that's happened to him in recent memory. Hannibal kisses the sound away.

“What—?” Will asks when they part.

Hannibal shushes him with a finger to his lips, which then trails down his abdomen, down his belly and over his cock with infuriating delicacy.

He’s rock hard. He hasn’t been this hard in his _life_ , certainly not since he was first captured. He hasn't even felt a spark of arousal for weeks, or months, or however long he's been on morphine, but Hannibal is patient and precise. He spits in his hand, forms a circle with his thumb and forefinger and strokes up his shaft, breaks contact, and then up again. It's just enough to keep him teetering on the edge. Every time Will gets too close he switches back to one finger, teasing the sensitive underside of his head until he's calmed down, and repeats the process.

Will doesn't know how long this goes on, but every few minutes Hannibal stops, sprays cologne in his face, and resumes touching him. He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, but it's not entirely unpleasant. The smell reminds of the woods behind his house, and happier days. From here on out it will remind him of Hannibal's clever fingers.

Perhaps this isn't as innocent as it seems. Maybe Hannibal isn't going to let him come, ever, and this is just a new, creative form of torture. But finally Hannibal abandons the painfully slow handjob to kneel between Will's legs. He ducks his head.

“Yes,” Will sighs, “oh  _fuck_ —”

He gently licks up and down Will's cock, circles around the head and wriggles his tongue against the slit. Every time Will softens even a little bit, Hannibal swallows his entire length and holds it in his warm, tight throat until he's right on the edge again. After minutes of this—much longer than Will thought he could hold out, but Hannibal is all about pushing his limits—he finally,  _finally_  starts sucking in earnest.

It's fucking surreal to watch the man who yesterday punched him in the abdomen until he vomited—not for any good reason, just for fun—bobbing up and down on his cock like he's getting paid to do it. The Chesapeake Ripper is sucking him off. Will isn't even going to try to claim that doesn't turn him on.

He comes in five or six long spurts. Hannibal sucks hungrily through his orgasm, which, after months of abstinence, seems to drag on forever. It courses through his entire body like a lightning strike, whiting out his vision. For a few seconds, he exists in blissful Elsewhere.

His softening cock and slips from Hannibal’s mouth. He crawls up Will's body, hovering above him, lips glistening and eyes dark with lust. He reaches for the side table and sprays Will with cologne.

“Whathefuck,” Will mumbles, wrinkling his nose. He is only partially present, an astronaut on Earth with his head still in the clouds. He doesn't resist as Hannibal rolls him over and manhandles him onto his back, head hanging off the edge of the bed. Will knows where this is going. He’s fine with it, still warm and glowing. He opens his mouth and accepts Hannibal's hard cock down his throat with ease.

It's nice. All Will has to do is lie still and breathe through his nose whenever Hannibal lets him. He cups Will's jaw to keep his head immobile as he slides home, all the way in and then all the way back out, fucking Will's throat like that's what it was built for, long and hard and fast and it's  _good_ ; it's easy to take, probably because Hannibal has ruined his gag reflex. 

He’s almost disappointed when it's over. Hannibal's pelvis crashes into his face, smothering him as his cock thickens, twitches, and shoots so far down his throat that he can't even taste it.

He doesn't pull out immediately, instead grinding into Will's suckling mouth until he's soft again. His first words are, “Thank you, Doctor Lecter,” and he means it. Hannibal wraps a protective hand around his throat and squeezes just enough to make his face warm, which is a threat, yes, but also a gesture of affection.

Then he pulls him to his feet—and _fuck_ , okay, that hurts—and leads him down the stairs, through the study and the kitchen, to the sub-basement. The lingering contentment exsanguinates with each step, replaced by creeping, viscous dread. He knows better than to ask stupid questions, like what they're doing or what's going to happen to him, but the questions still chase each other around in his head.

He's yet to see most of the chamber, because he can only see the ceiling from that fucking wheelchair. Of course, he holds no illusions about this room's purpose: Hannibal butchers human carcasses here, when he's not busy butchering Will, but Will hasn't actually seen any of the equipment or…meat. That's because, apparently, the lower basement is divided into two rooms: the small square room with the wheelchair and the drain in the floor, and a much larger room whose door is hidden behind the shelf of assorted kitchen utensils and torture instruments, which are surprisingly difficult to tell apart.

Hannibal produces a key from his breast pocket, inserts it into a hidden recess on the third shelf, and the entire contraption swings outward on well-oiled hinges.

He takes an involuntary step backwards. He's not expecting the overwhelming  _smell_. It's like stepping into a butcher's shop. Fresh blood. He doesn't want to go in there, but he has no say in the matter.

The moment he crosses the threshold, it’s the only thing he can see: The Box, cold plexiglass and a soundproof sheath, each dimension measuring less than a meter.

That's all it takes to spark yet another panic attack, zero to sixty in no time flat. Will can't stop it from happening, can't control his heart or his lungs or the awful phantom pain of compression, squeezing the breath out of him. He grips Hannibal's hand for dear life and sinks to the floor. Hannibal goes down with him. He can only thank his lucky stars that he just emptied his balls into Will's stomach, and that he's still in an unsettling, uncharacteristically good mood.

“S-sorry, I'm sorry,” he whispers between shallow, panicked breaths. “Can't—I can't—oh H-hannibal make it stop—” He can't breathe. He's having a heart attack, for real this time. He's definitely going to die.

“Hush William,” Hannibal says, familiar words with a familiar effect. “Breathe with me. In—that's right, hold it—and out. Good boy. In—” and that sense of impending doom subsides quickly, as it always does when Hannibal is generous enough to help him through it.

“Please,” Will says as soon as he can speak properly again. He shuffles closer, curling into Hannibal for protection. “Please don't put me in there. I'll do anything you say.”

“I know you will.” He's smiling, but there's something sinister lurking behind his teeth.

“I can't take it,” he insists. “I'll go crazy.”

“And that would make me a poor therapist indeed.” He strokes Will's hair once and helps him to his feet, steadies him with a hand on each shoulder. “I will not let you go crazy, Will. I need you aware and responsive, with a firm grasp on reality. But you must understand, I can't keep an eye on you all the time.”

Will makes a small noise of distress in the back of his throat, but he doesn't dare ask again. He knows how Hannibal operates. Once is a request, but twice is a challenge.

“I need somewhere safe to keep you,” he says, and this suspense is actually going to give Will a heart attack. The thought almost makes him laugh. How angry would Hannibal be if he died of natural causes before he finished torturing him to death?

“Your bed is safe,” he whispers, though he knows it's futile. “I won't go anywhere.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “I believe you,” he says, “but you and I both know that in matters of the mind, what is true today is seldom true tomorrow. I won't use the box, so long as you continue to cooperate. I've had more comfortable prison constructed.”

The word 'prison' makes Will's chest ache. It's accurate, of course—he's here against his will, because he was abducted—but he's spoiled on Hannibal's recent kindness, and had almost convinced himself his stay here could be voluntary.

“This way,” says Hannibal, dragging him toward the far corner of the room. Will tries not to see too much, keeps his eyes trained downward, but it's difficult not to notice the industrial freezers, the bandsaw, the meat hooks.

To his relief, Hannibal leads him to the least ominous piece of furniture in the room. It looks like metal wardrobe, about six feet tall and three feet wide, projecting a foot and half from the wall. It's not pleasant by any stretch of imagination, but it's a lot bigger than The Box. The door is held closed by three separate latches, each sporting a padlock ring. Hannibal flips them open and slides the door aside.

Will's heart sinks when sees the interior. He was hoping for a bed, even one he'd only fit in the fetal position, but is afforded no such luxury. The inside is slightly smaller than the outside, because one of the shorter walls is about six inches thick. Embedded in its surface are two small plexiglass windows, each housing a luminescent metronome, identical to the ones Hannibal uses for his “stimulus therapy” sessions.

The space is divided in half by a wall of thin, horizontal bars, too close to even slip a hand through. On one side there's just enough room for him to stand. On the other is a small seat. Everything is made of smooth, seamless steel, save for a rubber cushion on the seat.

He spins around, eyes wide and pleading.

But it the afterglow has worn off, and that fleeting kindness is gone from Hannibal's face. “Step inside,” he says, “facing the light.”

Will weighs his options as quickly as possible—no chance of overpowering Hannibal, no sense in running. He can do as he's told or try to bargain with the devil. That didn't end well for Faust, and it's not going to end well for him either, so he steps into the box.

Claustrophobia sets in before the door even shuts. He has to do something, can't allow himself to be locked in here. “Wait,” he says, scrambling for words, any words that might prevent this cruel and unusual punishment.

Hannibal quirks an eyebrow, awaiting the second half of that sentence, but Will can't think of anything to say.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” says Hannibal. And, miracle of all miracles, he takes Will's hand and pulls him back out of the container.

His heart flutters; he waits obediently as Hannibal retrieves something from the drawer of an adjacent workbench.

Just as quickly as it came, that spark of hope is extinguished. Of course no addition could make this sentence any more bearable, except maybe a  _lot_  of morphine, and while Hannibal is holding a needle and rubber gloves, it is not a hypodermic.

“Sit,” he says brusquely.

“On the floor?”

The withering stare he gets in return drops him to his knees immediately. He bows his head. He doesn't want to see whatever's going to happen next.

He flinches away from the cold rubber forced into his ear canals. Hannibal steadies his head with a firm grip and doesn't meet his eyes, focused on the task at hand. Once the plugs are fully seated, Will is deaf. They're just a little uncomfortable, protruding about a centimeter out of his ears.

Hannibal taps his shoulder. “Hold very still,” he mouths.

Something cold touches the top of his left ear. He barely has time to wonder what it is before a stabbing pain explodes through the entire left side of his head. His scream echoes endlessly around his own skull, and then the pain morphs into an uncomfortable throbbing and he's just crying, messy and uncontrollable.

“What, ugh–” he sniffles, blinking away tears. “What was that?” He can only hear the faint echo of his own voice, and that fucking terrifies him.

Hannibal doesn't answer, but he holds the thick needle in front of Will's face, and then it disappears behind his head.

“Oh god please, no no no don't—AAUGH!” A second piercing, more painful than the first, on his right side. Will thinks he might be sick, but after a few seconds the pain subsides once more to dull ache. His head is spinning. He wishes he'd just faint already.

Hannibal is saying something, but he can't hear it and can't focus enough to read his lips. He disappears for a moment and reappears holding a small circular mirror, smiling.

Will barely recognizes the face staring back at him. His eyes are hollow, ringed by dark circles. His cheeks are gaunt. But his emaciation isn't the main attraction—no, that would be the stainless steel bars piercing each ear. They run vertically from the top of the helix, through a hole in the middle of the rubber earplugs, and out through the lobe. A terribly clever design, locking the plugs in place.

He's at a loss for words, dizzy and disoriented, and can't put up much of a fight as Hannibal slips a hand under each of his armpits and hoists him to his feet, all but drags him back into the cabinet.

“ _Noooooo,_ ” Will groans feebly. “Hannibal, please,” but it's no more effective now than it was the last hundred times he said it, and Hannibal slams the door shut, plunging him into utter darkness.

For several long moments the world is silent, and then the plugs in his ears crackle to life, static buzz filling his brain. “Will, can you hear me?” Hannibal's voice feeds directly into his ears. It sounds like he's only inches away, which is unnerving.

“Y-yes,” Will says aloud. He compulsively touches his surroundings, running his hands over the smooth metal walls and the barred gate behind him, over and over and over. The space is too narrow for him to turn around. He has less than inch of room on each side, and his hair brushes against the top of the container. When he exhales, his breath bounces back to warm his face.

He has to get out of here, but has no idea how to make that happen. Hannibal doesn't respond well to begging, he won't accept sexual favors except on his own terms, and of course any appeal to his humanity would be laughable. Will has nothing to offer him.

But he can't stand idle and accept his fate. Hannibal might be incapable of compassion, but he holds himself to a high professional standard. “I'm going to have a panic attack,” Will says. He doesn't even have to fake the hysterical lilt of his voice. “I can't breathe in here, Doctor Lecter; I'm going to suffocate.” He wants to add 'you can't fuck me if I'm dead,' but that might be too obvious, and also he's not sure that Hannibal wouldn't.

“Fresh air is pumped in from the vent in the ceiling,” Hannibal says calmly, “and I'm sure you will have quite a few panic attacks. Your cell is equipped with an infrared camera, so if you try to hurt yourself, I'll know, and I will make you regret it.”

He wails in frustration. He thought he was  _done_  with this. He remembers the gentle, almost reverent way Hannibal touched him just minutes ago, the warmth in his eyes. How does that tenderness so quickly sour?

“The bars behind you can be lowered to allow access to the seat. Behave yourself and perhaps I'll let you sit down.” Then the headphones switch off for a moment, and back on. Hannibal's voice floods his perception again, but this time his words are familiar. Pre-recorded.

The metronome sparks to life inches from Will's face, blinding him. He shuts his eyes but the light seeps into his retinas unhindered.

“As you listen to my voice, your body grows more and more relaxed. With each word your eyelids feel heavier and heavier…”

~

Will doesn't want to call what happened in the garden an 'episode,' but he's having trouble coming up with a better term.

It's frustrating that all he can do to help, the only thing that feels productive in any way, is to sprawl out on the chaise lounge and relive the memories in excruciating detail for Hannibal's benefit. He fills out a few more McGillan Pain Questionnaires, about being drowned and having his fingers broken and the slow-building agony of confinement. If anything, it makes him feel worse. But he continues to humor Hannibal and maps out the chronology as best he can.

“After I started…behaving,” Will says, “I mean, that's what he called it. Really I'd just accepted that bargaining wouldn't work, and I figured out that the best way to keep him happy was to try and pretend I enjoyed it when he hurt me.” He laughs, though it's not remotely funny. “So, behaving. After that he started treating me better.”

He sighs and twists onto his side, cracking his back. He's restless remembering those long days of immobility. “Not all the time. He still tortured me pretty regularly, but sometimes when he let me out of that cupboard it was like…I don't know, like he looked at me and saw a human being instead of a slab of meat, just for a few hours. He'd bathe me, rub my back, talk to me. And listen. Like therapy. He was a good listener when he wanted to be.”

“How did that make you feel?” Hannibal asks. If it were anyone else Will might call it a lazy question, but the way he’s eyeing him it's obvious that he's emotionally invested, for some misguided reason.

“I don't know.” He laughs again, because he doesn't know how else to express this whirlwind of conflicting emotions. “When I was lucid enough to see the big picture it made me  _sick,_ that he could enjoy jamming pins under my fingernails and then turn around and bandage them up, and make me dinner, and…suck me off.”

Hannibal nods and writes something in his notebook. Will really wants to know what it says. Probably reads like the script for a snuff film.

“Most of the time I didn't want to be lucid, and when he was good to me I was in heaven. I remember once, after he'd left me standing in the dark for something like three days straight, he brought me up to his bedroom and let me stretch out on top of the covers, and he gave me the most  _amazing_  massage. And then we sat in bed together and he read to me for hours until I fell asleep. Lewis Carroll.” Will smiles. “It was like he was a different person. I kept thinking—”

He has to stop for a moment to marvel at his own stupidity. Christ. “I kept thinking that maybe he was, somehow. Like maybe there were two of them, and the good one was going to rescue me. I don't think he liked that, because all seven times he broke my fingers, he did it in the middle of…loving me.” He closes his eyes, overwhelmed. “Not sex, I mean, not every time, but when he was caring for me. When I had my guard down.”

To his credit, Will caught on eventually. He kept his hands underneath him when they were fucking, but that didn't keep him safe. Nothing could, really. He'd just snapped them in the bath instead, and at the dinner table, and in those vulnerable post-coital moments, Will lying sweaty and prostrate, chest heaving. Nothing ruins the afterglow like a closed shear fracture of the rightmost proximal phalange.

“Perhaps he was simply trying to be genuine with you,” says Hannibal. “He wanted to show you that his affection and his sadism were opposite sides of the same coin.”

He narrows his eyes. “What's the point of that?” He asks. “I mean, yeah; it seems like all of this was about making me associate pain and violence with love and arousal, but _why?_ ”

“We can only speculate,” Hannibal says, setting down the notebook to fold his hands in his lap, “but the fact that put so much effort into training you tells me you must have been special to him somehow. Perhaps he saw something of himself in you.”

Will frowns. He's  _nothing_ like that bastard.

“Hear me out,” says Hannibal, raising a hand. “I'm sure you can agree that a man capable of the brutality you've described is not capable of love in the traditional sense, yes?”

He nods, still skeptical.

“But if he was the Chesapeake Ripper, as we believe, he certainly kept tabs on you long before the abduction, and must have seen your heightened empathy at work. Even psychopaths desire compassion, Will. Perhaps he saw in you a singular opportunity to be understood and accepted without pretense.”

He pushes himself off the chaise, paces to the window and allows his turbulent, unseeing gaze to skim across the garden. “You seem awfully sure about that.”

Hannibal smiles, unfazed. “As I said, we can only speculate. If understanding your abuser brings you any comfort, it is a worthy endeavor.”

“Oh, I think I'm starting to understand,” Will spits. “But even if he loved me, or manipulated my definition of love into something that could include him, he still lost me. He doesn't get to reap the spoils.”

“Because you escaped.”

“Because I survived him,” says Will. He smiles without a trace of amusement. “I'm the Ripper's only living victim.”

~

At first Will is grateful. This cell, while inhumane, is downright comfortable compared to The Box. He doesn't have to tuck his feet behind his head in here. In fact, if he shifts his weight just right he can rotate his ankles to relieve the terrible cramping that comes from standing for hours on end. He can't move his arms away from his sides, but he can at least crack his neck and shoulders.

Best of all, the brainwashing ensemble is designed specifically to tune him out of reality and into whatever twisted frequency Hannibal is broadcasting. Will still doesn't know what the recording says after the hypnotic induction, but he's decided he doesn't care. He'll happily listen and obey if it means escaping the hell his life has become, even temporarily.

He allows himself to drift away. Hannibal's low, monotone voice guides him somewhere safer, more comfortable, where bad things happen to bad people and not to Will. Even the hot, throbbing pain in his newly-pierced ears begins to fade.

That is, until he relaxes enough to lose his balance. The second his naked shoulder contacts the wall, he's hit with a nasty electrical shock. The cell goes dark and his earphones switch to loud, disorienting static. He grunts in pain, scrambling away from the source of the electricity, only to crash into the opposite wall and get shocked again.

He rights himself, breathing heavily in the exact center of the enclosure. It takes him a moment to remember where he is. It takes him a lot longer than that to realize that the pain was not some kind of malfunction; rather, it’s a carefully programmed training tool. He has to stand upright. If he tries to find some relief by leaning against any side of the container, he's wrenched out of the blissful daydream and deposited back in his dark, painful reality.

He stands perfectly still in the dark, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing. After about five minutes the metronome and headphones come back online.

Will gets it. He can't zone out; he has to stay present enough to keep himself upright. Why? Maybe his brain is more malleable that way, if he's actually paying some attention. Or maybe it's just torture. He doesn't pretend to know Hannibal's endgame. He tries not to think too far into the future, because doing so makes him consistently suicidal.

Right now, the most pressing issue on his mind is the terrible ache in his feet, so he focuses on that exclusively. Hannibal said that if he behaved he might be allowed to sit down. By turning his head at an unnatural angle, he can just glimpse the horizontal bars and the seat behind him. It's not much, a thin rubber pad atop a short ledge, but it's motivation enough.

Though he can never be certain about Hannibal's intentions, he knows what 'behaving' means: stand still, watch the light, listen and absorb. Be a good little victim—forget about silly ideas like 'free will' and 'bodily autonomy.' Just listen to Doctor Lecter and everything will be okay.

Will can do that.

~

The villa is boring without Hannibal around. One can only read so much Dante before the entire world starts stinking of sulfur.

Hannibal has a job, apparently, teaching at Florence University of the Arts. Of course he has to pay for this place somehow. Will's not sure where Hannibal's seemingly unlimited wealth comes from, but he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he doesn't ask.

The money would be a little bit more useful if he had someplace to spend it, though. He's confined to the property unless Hannibal drives him somewhere, which will probably happen in time. He did mention something about sightseeing; Will hopes he wasn't just making small talk. He doesn't bring it up.

It's a drive into Florence, and the nearest town isn't far but it's too far to walk, for sure. Will can barely walk around the perimeter of the grounds, though he does, every day, sometimes more than once. It exhausts him. Sometimes the pain in his feet, the constant dull ache in the right and occasional bursts of agony where the left should be, necessitates breaks upwards of twenty minutes. He gets winded walking down the stairs to the wine cellar. Months of torture and malnutrition will do that to a person.

He spends most of his days in the library, brushing up on his Italian and reading the classics. He hasn't had much time to appreciate art or literature since the Academy, and he's surprised to find that it brings him some measure of inner peace. 

Even so, he feels purposeless without a job or a house or a family, without any real plans for the future. He's mentioned it to Hannibal, but Hannibal just tells him not to worry and to focus on recovering for as long as he needs.

Will doesn't know how long that will be, but he's only been here for two weeks and he's already getting a little stir crazy. He scours the place for entertainment. No television, unsurprisingly, and there's wireless internet but Hannibal takes his tablet to work with him, leaving Will isolated.

He fiddles around with the harpsichord in the foyer, and eventually finds some sheet music stashed in Hannibal's desk drawer. It's advanced, but Will has all the time in the world to learn.

Maybe he has an ear for these things, even, because it doesn't take all the time in the world—more like eight or ten days of intensive practice. He's always careful to replace the music in the drawer when he's done. He doesn't want Hannibal to notice and make him perform it. He plans to show him eventually, on his own terms. Once he works up the nerve.

But it happens a lot sooner than he intended. He's about halfway through the harpsichord suite, lost in the music, when he hears Hannibal's car pull into the driveway. He's home from work early, in the door before Will even has a chance to get his leg on.

“Good afternoon,” he says. He sets several paper grocery sacks on the hall table and slips off his jacket. He really looks the part of art professor in that plaid monstrosity with the elbow patches, in boat shoes and sock garters and pressed slacks, silver-blonde hair brushing the tops of his eyebrows. “I didn't know you play.”

Will shrugs. He must be quite a sight, poised at the keyboard in just a pair of silk pajama pants tied off below the left knee. The prosthetic is comfortable, but something about it makes Will feel trapped, so he keeps it off when he can. Ironic that he's more trapped without it. Can't flee if he has to.

“I don't really,” he says. “I've just been messing around with some sheet music I found.”

Hannibal steps closer to examine the music, leaning over his shoulder. His dress shirt brushes against Will's bare skin, soft but crisp. He smells wonderful, so good that it sends shivers up his spine and he is suddenly very, very aware of their proximity.

“Oh dear,” Hannibal chuckles.

“What?” His stomach clenches.  


“This piece isn't quite finished,” he says, thumbing through the pages. “I do have Chopin in the bench if you'd prefer something a bit more refined.”

“Oh. I mean I don't mind; I like it.” He feels stupid for not thinking to look in the bench. “Wait, if it's not finished—do you mean this is yours?”

Hannibal nods with a modest smile. “I dabble in composition,” he says. “Though I truly think you'd find Chopin more to your liking.”

The anxiety is replaced by warm giddiness. Will doesn't want to enjoy invading Hannibal's privacy, however unintentional the intrusion, but there is something intimate about playing a composition not intended for the public eye.

“It doesn't sound unfinished,” Will says. “It's beautiful, actually.” His face flushes, but he bites his lip and powers through it.

Hannibal smiles, raising his eyebrows. “Thank you, Will.” He pats an empty spot on the bench. “Do you mind?”

“No,” he says, scooting aside to accommodate him. Hannibal sits on the end of the bench, leaving him plenty of room to reach the keys.

“I would quite like to hear your interpretation.”

Ugh. He was hoping Hannibal wouldn't ask, but can't say he's surprised. “I'm pretty bad,” he says. “Um, I can try.”

“I'm not here to judge your skill; rather, the integrity of my own work. If any section confuses you, it is more likely my fault than yours.”

Will doesn't quite buy that, but he nods anyway. “Okay,” he says, flipping back to the first page. “The tempo might be a bit off.”

“I haven't a metronome on hand,” says Hannibal, “so just do your best.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his hands steady. “Right,” he says under his breath. “Okay.”

The first tentative notes hang suspended in the air like Christmas lights before going dim, replaced by another, stronger chord. Will can do this. He's done it probably a hundred times at this point.

The song begins with a slow, delicate crescendo, light and airy at first but building in depth. Hannibal's gaze is hot on the back of his neck, but he doesn't look up. Concentrate on the music. It sounds different, somehow, with Hannibal listening.

As Will's immersion grows, the bench seems to lift up off the floor, hovering weightless in the middle of the foyer. Higher and higher they rise, above the rafters and into the clear blue sky. Nothing exists but Will and Hannibal and Harpsichord Suite No 21 in G Major, and a gentle breeze rocks their perch like a cradle through wispy white clouds.

It is over too soon. The final phrase brings them back to Earth, lands heavy and honest on a low note. They give the song some room to breathe.

“That was outstanding,” Hannibal says.

Will can't look at him, looking instead out the window to his left. “Thanks.” A nervous laugh. “There's not much to do when you're gone, so I've been practicing. This is the only thing I can play so far.”

“An ambitious introduction to the instrument,” Hannibal says. “But well performed. I must admit I'm surprised. I never took you for the musical type.”

“Me neither,” he laughs.

He is invincible, warm and glowing and light as helium. They don't speak, but Hannibal shifts a few inches closer, inundating Will with the sultry, enticing smell of him. His gaze falls on Hannibal's thin lips.

Without thinking, Will brings a hand to Hannibal's cheek, thumb skimming over his high cheekbone and down to the corner of his mouth, which twitches with the first budding impulse of a smile. Hannibal doesn't move but he doesn't pull away. He smells so good, like earth and the woods behind Will's house. 

His chest tightens, his palms sweat and his heart races. He can't breathe, but that's par for the course.

“Will,” Hannibal says, and then Will leans in and kisses him.

For a moment Hannibal only allows the gentle, insistent press of his lips—and then he brings both hands to his face and pulls him closer, holds him still and slips his tongue into Will’s welcoming mouth. Now they're in too deep to take it back. He closes his eyes, presses his body as close to Hannibal's as he can manage, and loses himself in the forgiving softness.

Hannibal kisses him breathless. Will only pulls away because he needs oxygen. He wants to delve back in to the warmth of Hannibal's embrace, wants to curl up inside him and never leave, but Hannibal is looking at him with unspoken questions in his eyes, and Will feels obligated to answer.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what, um,” he falls silent and looks at his feet. Foot.

“Don't apologize,” Hannibal murmurs. He lifts Will's chin to look at him. Doubt is scribbled like a sonnet across his face—but Hannibal's never doubted anything in his life, so it must be something else. Concern on Will's behalf, perhaps.

His sturdy hands form the only barrier between Will and the panic attack of a lifetime.

He doesn't know what to say, but Hannibal always does. He leans in close, until their lips are almost touching again. “Come, make dinner with me,” he whispers. It feels like a confession.

~

Though it's only noon, the sky is already darkening in preparation for what the newscasters are calling il temporale balena—literally, “the whale storm.” Will hasn't heard so much as a word in any voice but Hannibal's in more than five months, so of course he has no way of knowing this until Hannibal tells him, in the precarious stillness surrounding the kitchen island.

“It smells like rain,” Will says, voice barely above a whisper. Neither of them want to speak too loudly for fear of sullying the the humid purity of these moments.

“Rain brings the garden to life,” says Hannibal. “It stirs the soil.”

Hannibal stirs his pitcher of warm water and Marsala cooking wine, before passing it to Will to pour over the roasting pan full of raw vegetables and bloody hind shank. His hand is steady; he pours with measured care, evenly drenching every part of the meat. It's not much, a small portion of skinless flesh still clinging to a clean-cut fragment of bone, just enough for two—but Hannibal assures him it is of the finest quality, cut from the weakest, most tender calf. Will doesn't doubt it.

“What's next?” He asks, setting the pitcher on the counter.

“Next we slow-roast for three and a half hours,” says Hannibal.

Will glances at the recipe card, filled with Hannibal's elegant, close-set hand. “This says four hours.”

“For a good roast, yes.” Hannibal smiles mischievously, taps the side of the pan with his knuckle. “This is a superb roast, and we wouldn't want to jeopardize its delicacy by overcooking.”

He nods. “Into the oven then?”

“Into the oven,” says Hannibal. He watches with disconcerting attention as Will slides the pan onto the middle rack. The heat of the oven fogs his glasses, blinding him for a moment.

A moment is all it takes for Hannibal to pin him against the counter with his weight, arms braced on either side, caging him in. He gasps and Hannibal kisses his open mouth.

The air between them is wet and cloying, smelling of rain and fresh blood and musky cologne. It's overpowering at this distance, permeating his narrow field of perception and making his head fuzzy. His cock hardens in the silk confines of his boxers. Hannibal notices, hums low in the back of his throat, and presses one muscular thigh between Will's. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle box. Secrets hide in the shadowy places where their bodies intersect.

Will thrusts helplessly against his leg, grinds the full length of his erection up and down his thigh. The silk is soft and maddeningly slippery, its touch just this side of too gentle against his swollen cock.

“Fuck,” he breathes, surfacing for air. “What—what about the food?”

“It requires no attention for now,” Hannibal says, his voice like sandpaper on rough woodwork. “If you think I'd endanger such a remarkable cut in favor of carnal pleasures, you severely underestimate my self-restraint.”

It's such a typically egotistical thing to say, and Will can't help but laugh. “Oh please, I know cooking is as much a carnal pleasure for you as copulation. I wouldn't be surprised if you got a little hard carving up that roast.”

“William,” Hannibal says. He's trying so hard to sound indignant, but the note of elation in his voice is unmistakable, and it tells him there’s some truth in his teasing.

“Ever done both at once?” He presses. “Fucking and eating?”

“I haven't had the pleasure,” says Hannibal, bemused. He's taken aback but not offended—in disbelief, if anything. Probably never considered how Will's empathy could extend to the bedroom.

Will isn't banking on making it all the way to the bedroom.

“I have the next best thing,” he murmurs. He grabs handful of his shirt and spins them around, dragging him toward the door. “C'mere.”

He plays along and follows Will to the dining room, allowing him to push aside the basket of expensive olive oils serving as centerpiece. He backs toward it, pulling Hannibal with him by the straps of his apron, until the edge of the tabletop digs into the small of his back.

“Fuck me on the dinner table,” Will demands.

Hannibal shivers against him. Cracking his stoic facade is even more satisfying than Will anticipated.

“Determined to spoil my appetite, aren't you?” He growls in Will's ear. He wraps his arms around him and hoists him onto the table, making him gasp with delight.

He easily tugs Will's pants and underwear over his hips and tosses them to the side, leaving his lower half exposed, shiny red cock bobbing insistently against his naval. Hannibal climbs on top and kisses him senseless, sucking on his bottom lip until it's puffy and swollen, before moving on to his neck and biting hard enough to bruise.

Will squeals and kicks, but he has no leverage with which to escape the crushing grip on his pelvis, not that he truly wants to. “Fucking animal,” he snarls, twisting away just to feel Hannibal hold him down.

In this position, the power Hannibal holds over him is clear. Will is crippled and still feeble, easily exhausted. It would be so easy for Hannibal to take advantage of him like this, if Will didn't want him, to pin one arm across his chest and use the other to force Will's hips down on his cock. The thought shouldn't turn him on, but it drives him absolutely wild with lust. He rakes his nails down Hannibal's back and grinds against him with desperate fervor.

Hannibal pulls away, leaving him exposed and wanting on the varnished tabletop. Before he has a chance to protest, he’s unbuckled the prosthetic and laid it across one of the dining chairs. The first wisp of doubt coils snakelike around Will’s throat, but he pushes it aside and kisses Hannibal instead, only flinching a little bit as a rough hand grips the sore remains of his left knee.

He pushes it up toward Will's chest until his hamstring burns, stump resting on his shoulder, too close to his face. He reaches over Will's head and grabs a bottle of olive oil, which he uncaps one-handed and drizzles copiously over Will's hard cock. Will shivers as the cool oil trickles down his balls and into his ass crack.

“Bet that was expensive,” he breathes.

“A cheap marinade ruins even the finest brisket,” Hannibal says, deftly unbuttoning his slacks to pool abandoned around his ankles.

His clever comeback dies in his throat at the sight of Hannibal's cock straining against his white briefs. Its outline is obscenely clear under the tight, thin cotton; even the ridge of his cockhead stands out in sharp relief. Will is struck by the unbidden mental image of a Greek statue, the lifelike tension and translucence of fabric rendered in smooth white marble.

He captures Will's lower lip between his teeth and sinks his middle finger knuckle-deep into his ass, eliciting an astonished cry which devolves into delighted laughter. He's never been penetrated before, at least not that he can remember, and is more than a little scared to take Hannibal's impressive girth on the first try.

But the finger tugging at Will's insides is a pleasant counterpoint to Hannibal's sharp teeth digging into his lip, gnashing like he wants to eat him alive. Will grinds his hips experimentally onto his hand and it's good; each thrust puts spine-tingleing pressure against what he thinks is his bladder. It sort of feels like he needs to pee, but mostly it makes his cock twitch and pulse against his belly.

“More,” he pants.

Hannibal releases his lip and pulls out, stroking Will's slick cock a few times before dragging his fingers over his balls and lower, massaging the gathered oil into his crevice. There is a moment of blunt pressure and then Hannibal breaches him, three fingers this time. It burns, but the pain is buried under the pleasant fullness and the unfamiliar thrill of their union. Hannibal is inside him. The better part of his hand splits him open with its unwavering, ineffable solidity. Will wriggles against him, trying to pull it deeper.

He fucks Will with his hand, twists his fingers in and out of his ass, massaging the oil into him. It's overwhelming and uncomfortable and intensely erotic. Will doesn't know what to do with himself. He's a sweaty, writhing mess, alternately fucking himself on Hannibal's fingers and bucking his hips in search of something, anything, to rub his cock against.

He's panting in excitement and fear in equal measure as Hannibal finally withdraws his fingers and slicks his cock with the remaining oil. Will is fascinated by the way the head pops through the tight ring of his fingers, angry red, almost purple, dripping copious clear pre-come over his knuckles.

“I'm going to fuck you,” Hannibal growls.

“Yes, please, please.”

“I don't have protection.”

“I trust you,” Will says without hesitation. “Do it. Fuck me, Hannibal.”

A glint of pointy white teeth, and then he sinks into Will in one long, slow thrust.

“Fu-u-uck!”

He's scared for a second that he's bleeding, but that's just oil warmed by the heat of friction. Will can't fathom how Hannibal's cock could possibly be wider than three of his fingers. It fucking burns, a slow drag stretching him to the breaking point. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but Hannibal snarls, bares his teeth, and forces him back down to the table. He struggles to breathe under the weight crushing his ribcage. It's nothing like indulgent lovemaking he was expecting, but he can't say he doesn't like it when Hannibal pulls out and slams back into him so hard that the table creaks in protest.

His cock slides in easier after that first push. The burn fades and he's able to focus once again on the exquisite pressure, on being stuffed so painfully full of Hannibal that he feels whole for maybe the first time in his life.

Hannibal slams his pelvis so hard against Will's ass that each impact pushes them a little further up the table.

“ _S-slower, H-Ha—_ ”

Will can't even get the entire sentence out, but it's not as if he’s listening anyway. At least he removes his weight from Will's chest to grip his other leg behind the knee. He presses it against his shoulder, folding Will in half, which would trigger him in any other circumstance—but at this angle, he hits that spot just right every time. Each thrust makes his cock twitch and spit pre-come over his belly. The burn in ass is replaced by the burn of strained muscles in his calves and lower back, and it fucking hurts, and it's so good that he's crying a little bit. He can't stop himself.

Hannibal towers like a monolith above him, beautiful and terrifying. His hair falls into his eyes, which are black with lust, and his muscles ripple under his shirt. Will feels defenseless, naked while Hannibal is almost fully clothed. He loves it.

“ _Pl-e-ease,_ ” he begs, stuttering under the force of Hannibal's thrusts. 

“You love it when I use you,” Hannibal growls. “All those doctors and investigators treating you like a delicate little teacup, but this is what you really want, isn't it Will? You  _need_  to be abused.”

Will groans his wordless affirmation, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sweat-slick tabletop. At last Hannibal releases his good leg and takes hold of his cock instead. He digs his heel into Hannibal's back, pulling him deeper. Everything is hot and slippery, especially the wet embrace of his palm.

“Please, please,” Will moans, “more, _fuck_ , Hannibal!”

“Filthy whore,” Hannibal spits. “You love it when I hurt you.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Will sobs. He's right on the edge, if Hannibal would just stroke him a  _little_  faster.

“I'll tell you the truth,” Hannibal says through gritted teeth. His pace is becoming erratic, his cock throbbing in Will's guts. “I believe—ah—I believe this is why he took you.”

The words take a few moments to sink in. “ _W-wh—?_ ”

He grins like a shark and buries himself to the hilt in Will's warm body, grinds into him as the first wave of his orgasm breaks. “He knew you'd like it.”

Will hears. He understands. The words embed themselves in his brain like fishhooks, settle in his stomach with heavy, sickening certainty.

Hannibal empties himself; his cock grows and jerks and fills him up, and then Will comes with the force of an exploding supernova. It rocks him to his core and he screams Hannibal's name, clings to him with all of his strength, and vows to never, ever let go.

~

He curls up with a book on the library sofa and doesn't speak to Hannibal until he's called for dinner. Even then it's only to ask for a moment to struggle into dress pants and a suit jacket.

Hannibal serves Will before serving himself. He cuts thin, pink strips of slow-roasted hind shank and piles their plates high. He sits, unfolds his napkin, and takes a sip of wine.

What follows is the longest, most uncomfortable silence Will has ever experienced in Hannibal's presence. The man has a gift for small talk, so its absence is clearly intentional. Why he wants to feed Will's anxiety is anyone's guess. They battle it out, neither wanting to speak first. Will finishes most of his vegetables and half of his wine before Hannibal finally caves.

“I'd like to apologize for what I said earlier,” he says, calculating every word. “It was…inappropriate.”

Will cocks his head, considering him. “Correct me if I'm wrong,” he says. “I just want to make sure I'm understanding you. You think that the Chesapeake Ripper abducted, raped, and tortured me for months—” he pauses for emphasis “—because he thought I'd  _enjoy_  it?”

Hannibal's lips draw into a thin line. Will is testing his patience, and it’s not his place to do so, but he's burning with tumultuous resentment and Hannibal is, by his own design, the only available target.

“My critical thinking was compromised.”

“Sure,” Will says. “Of course. You were balls deep in my ass. We were both compromised.” He savors Hannibal's small grimace of distaste. Every reaction Will can draw out of him is a triumph. “But you meant it, didn't you?”

Hannibal looks at him, sizing him up. “Yes.”

Will sneers. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“I don't know if it is a trait he planted in you or if you came to him fully formed,” says Hannibal, his tone harsh, “but the fact of the matter is, you are deeply masochistic. You find both pleasure and tranquility in pain. The role of martyr provides purpose which you otherwise lack.”

Will laughs, just a tinge hysterical. “With all due respect, Doctor Lecter,” he says, crossing his arms protectively over his chest, “you can go fuck yourself.”

Hannibal shakes his head sadly. “Your defensive stance elucidates unresolved, deep-seated identity issues. You're afraid, Will.”

“Oh, I'm afraid alright,” Will says. “Fear has been my  _constant_  companion. Fear is the key component of self-preservation. It's like a guard dog, loyal, and it's kept me alive so far.”

“Tell me what you're afraid of.”

Will smiles with teeth, the way a predator lifts its lip to display its murder weapon. “I'm afraid of recovering my memory,” he says. “I'm scared of what I might find. I'm afraid—deathly afraid—of  _you,_  Hannibal.”

Hannibal's face does not betray a sliver of emotion. His eyes glint like gemstones in firelight. “And why is that?”

“I'm afraid—” he swallows the rising panic in the back of his throat. “I'm afraid that you might be right about me.” He grins and spreads his hands in front of him. Tears blur his vision. He knows how crazy he must look right now. “Actually, I know you're right. I'm afraid of what that means.”

Hannibal lifts his chin. The corners of his mouth twitch. “You agree that you are a masochist?”

“I agree that I have a…complicated relationship with violence, both as victim and aggressor. There are a lot of things you don't know about me.”

“Enlighten me.”

Will grimaces and pushes his chair out from the table. He knows he's being unspeakably rude, but he doesn't care. “I can't eat this.”

“You'll finish your meal,” Hannibal says sharply.

Will's eyes narrow. “Or what?”

“Don't test me. I’ve shown you nothing but courtesy since your arrival, and I expect the same in return. Finish your meal and we will discuss this civilly, or not at all.”

His instinct is defiance, but something about Hannibal's gaze allows that snappy retort to the tip of his tongue and no further. His presses his lips together and scoots his chair forward again, picks up his fork. He impales a pile of the thin-cut calf shank and raises it to his lips, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

Hannibal nods almost imperceptibly. Will doesn't want his praise, doesn't want it to light up his reward centers like an electrical surge, but it's an involuntary response conditioned into him through countless hours spent in Hannibal's presence. Pleasing Hannibal makes him feel good the same way a strong drink makes him feel good, but Hannibal's influence is far more disorienting.

“We are engaged in an ongoing exploration of your role as victim,” he says. “Tell me about your role as aggressor.”

Will takes another bite to give himself time to piece together the jagged shards of his composure. They never fit right.

“I suppose you already know how often I fantasize about it.”

“About committing murder.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath to steady his hands. “You could call it that,” he says. “But I think the word 'murder' gives me a little too much credit. You walk in on your wife with another man and shoot them both in the head, that's murder. I want to commit  _atrocities._ ”

“Have you acted on any of these compulsions?” Hannibal asks, sipping his wine.

“I've never attacked anyone because of them, if that's what you're asking,” he says. “But I've come close. The desire doesn't go away on its own. It's this constant nagging voice, like knowing you've forgotten something important but not knowing what it is. Like…like morphine cravings. I've hurt myself trying to get rid of it.” He lifts his arm to show Hannibal the burn scar on the inside of his left wrist. It's faded from irritated pink to white, a little lighter than the surrounding skin, with a subtle, grainy texture like tree bark. “He didn't do this to me.”

Hannibal tucks his chin and smiles a tight, closed-lip smile. He doesn't have to say anything to communicate his satisfaction at being right as usual.

He casts his eyes downward and silently cleans his plate, steeling himself a little more with each bite. After a few long minutes, once there's no more food or wine to hide behind, he bites the bullet.

“I had a target,” he says. “His name was Prichard C. Johnson. He was a divorced investment banker. White, mid forties, lived alone. I broke into his house the night before I was kidnapped.”

“To kill him?” Hannibal asks, his raised eyebrows betraying little more than casual interest.

“Not that night, no. I was just scoping the place out.”

“But you planned to kill him.”

Will sighs almost wistfully and rests his chin in his hand. “I would have done it,” he says, “and soon. That week. But I was abducted before I got the chance. Funny how the universe works like that—I mean, it almost seemed like karma.”

“I am a firm believer in free will,” says Hannibal, “which precludes karma by definition. However, it is human nature to search for patterns where none exist. The search can lend purpose to those who are lacking.”

“If you knew what I was going to do to him, you might not be so quick to call me lacking.”

He can tell from Hannibal's posture that he'd like nothing more than to hear in graphic detail what Will was going to do to him, but courtesy keeps his lips patiently sealed. When Will doesn't speak after several long moments, Hannibal pushes his chair out from the table. “Perhaps this conversation would be better continued during our session tomorrow.”

“No,” Will says, standing too quickly. Then, calmer: “I need to tell you now. Just give me a minute to think.”

“Take all the time you need,” says Hannibal. “I'll clear the table.”

He doesn't have to be asked to take a stack of dishes in one hand and deposit them in the sink, but his mind is elsewhere: about twenty minutes outside of Wolf Trap, in the closet of the only occupied bedroom in a nearly empty house. He is watching the gentle rise and fall of a comforter and coveting the fragile, pathetic life it suggests.

They don’t speak again until the dishes are clean and he's sat gingerly on the sofa. Hannibal takes his place in the armchair. Might as well do this right.

“You're tense, Will.”

“I can't relax,” Will says, flopping down on the couch. His curls bounce and fan out around his face. He needs a haircut. 

“The fact that these urges distress you is proof that you are not a psychopath,” Hannibal says, as if that's supposed to make him feel better.

“I wish I was. At least then I wouldn't feel guilty about it.”

“The act of confession can alleviate guilt, even if it is not necessarily accompanied by repentance,” he says. Will meets his eyes.  _Ask for my forgiveness,_ they beckon.  _Allow me to know you._

Hannibal knows him far too well already. He is dangerously entwined in Will's psyche, embedded like a tick, sucking him dry. Destroy the body and the head remains.

“I had it all choreographed,” says Will. “I rehearsed it over and over until I didn't have to think about it, because I knew when the day came I wouldn't be able to think about it without losing my nerve. I committed the dance to muscle memory.”

“Help me see your design.”

Will stares blankly at the ceiling, and all he sees are his hands around Pritchard C. Johnson's throat.

“I was going to catch him off guard, at night. I had a gun but I wasn't going to use it; I just needed him to cooperate while I lashed him to the table. Cooperation was key. He was in good shape. I knew I wouldn't be able to do it without the threat.”

“Why Pritchard, specifically?”

Will shrugs. “He was easy,” he says, “and difficult to trace back to me. Had the right build. He was a runner, never smoked, which was important because I wanted to cut out his lungs while he was still breathing.”

He's hoping for some kind reaction from Hannibal, shock or disgust or anything but that predictable, infuriating apathy, but he should know better. It takes a lot more than vivisection to ruffle his feathers.

“A familiar modus operandi,” he muses. “You would rather imitate a master than develop your own technique?”

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery,” Will says, folding his hands across his chest, legs straight out, like a corpse being laid to rest. Dignity in inflexibility. “How did you learn to paint? Study Leonardo until  _sfumato_  becomes second nature.”

Hannibal smiles. “Making good use of the library, I see. In my own work I tend to prefer  _chiaroscuro_  for its superb illusion of volume.” He inclines his head. “But I take your point.”

Will is suddenly sick to death of this playful little waltz around the issue. He sits up abruptly, looks Hannibal in the eye. “I was going to eat him,” he says, every syllable clearly enunciated. “Fry his lungs for myself and leave the cheaper cuts on his expensive china for the police to find.”

“They might be better off in the broiler,” Hannibal says absently, “if you want to preserve the texture.”

Will looks at him, mouth open in disbelief, until he realizes that Hannibal isn't joking. He flounders for words for a moment before shaking his head. “Christ,” he says. “There's really no winning with you, is there?”

“If your aim is to disgust me, you'll find that my years as a surgeon and psychiatrist have left me quite numb to depravity.”

He doesn't comment on that, because he doesn't want to escalate this pissing contest. Instead he says, “I was doing it for myself, not for him, but I knew the Ripper would notice. I wanted him to contact me.”

“I'm sure the irony isn't lost on you.”

“I wanted him to show himself to me voluntarily. I wanted to know him,” Will says, grimacing. “Just not in the biblical sense.”

Hannibal unfolds his crossed ankles and leans forward with his hands on his knees, sitting at the edge of his seat. “Tell me, Will, did sex with the Ripper make you feel powerful?”

Will shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Hell no. I don't think I've ever felt more powerless in my life. I felt like…like a boat loose from its mooring, entirely at the mercy of the tide.”

“Every boat leaves a wake,” Hannibal says. “He changed you irreversibly; there's no doubt about that, but intimacy is a means of influence. How do you think you influenced him?”

It's a loaded question. He thinks back to the few good days, the tender affection the Ripper showed him—something warm and genuine; something dangerously close to love.

But psychopaths don't love. The Ripper loved him in the way an author loves his characters. Nurture and develop them all you like, but intrigue is lost without conflict. In the end you still have to kill your darlings.

“He was…my friend,” Will says at last. “I like to think I brought out the humanity in him.”

“And he brought out the animal in you,” says Hannibal.

“Oh no,” he says with a laugh. “I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing, Doctor Lecter. Always have been. All he did was remove the disguise.”

~

It doesn't rain that night. The clouds pile up thick and heavy above the lake and dry lightning crackles in the distance, but not a drop escapes the pregnant sky. Will lies on his back in bed and imagines that he is a rain drop: driven by a single, simple purpose, a lifetime of waiting for a minute of free fall. Predetermined.

Hannibal believes in free will because his ego won't allow him to consider that his accomplishments might not be his own. What would Will have to do to convince himself that he's in control of his own fate? He couldn't do it under Hannibal's care; that's for sure.

He falls asleep alone and wakes up alone, but in the interlude between the two he is not alone. He sits in his armchair in the charred remnants of his living room, staring into the crackling fire. His dogs are nowhere to be found. The house is dead without them. In the corner, Hannibal winds broken fingers into fishing hooks and ties each one with a delicate surgeon's knot. He sings quietly to himself while he works:

“ _Il dolce suono, mi colpì di sua voce…_ ”


	3. Ohimè! Sorge il Tremendo Fantasma (Alas! Arises a Terrible Phantom)

_“It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.”  
Marquis de Sade_

The front page of Tattlecrime hosts a full-color photo of Will Graham's twisted, charred corpse. The image is so disturbing that some news stands refuse to sell the issue. The headline, overlaid in obnoxious red letters, reads: 

**Copycat Killer Found Dead in House Fire! Tattlecrime Uncovers Suicide Note!**

The next page, a spread which has appeared in the past three issues, sports a flattering headshot of Freddie Lounds and a number to call with any information on her whereabouts. The real story doesn't start until page three:

**Copycat Killer Burned Alive in House Fire!**

> Fugitive Will Graham, who the media has dubbed “The Copycat Killer” for his suspected imitation of the Chesapeake Ripper murders, was found dead in his home at 7am on Sunday. He is accused of brutally murdering six people, including Cassie Boyle, Georgia Madchen, Dr. Peter Sutcliffe, Marissa Schurr, Abigail Hobbes, and most recently, Dr. Mitchel Sanderson. Experts assert that DNA evidence found at the sixth crime scene would have been enough for a conviction.
> 
> Graham allegedly burned down his house with himself still inside sometime on Saturday. His remains were thoroughly incinerated, but tooth fragments from the scene were consistent with Graham's dental records. He has no living relatives.
> 
> Any trial now would be in absentia, but authorities are distributing his assets to the families of the deceased.

There's more. They've also published the most incriminating lines from the note Will had hidden in his chimney, which was somehow leaked to the press. A voluntary injunction didn't stop it from spreading, and after the publication of this issue, the department called it lost cause and lifted the injunction anyway.

**Killer's Confession!**

> “I've become a threat to myself and others. I fantasize about committing murder every day now, in gruesome detail,” Graham wrote. The suicide note was addressed to his therapist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and included graphic threats on his life. “I also want to kill you, more than I've wanted to kill anybody before. When we're sitting across from each other in your office, can you tell that I'm imagining how good it would feel? I'd make it slow, slit your wrists across the vein, and we could sit together for hours and talk as I bleed you dry.”
> 
> Dr. Lecter has since retired from psychiatry and moved to an undisclosed location. When contacted for comment, he said, “I just want to forget about this horrible tragedy and move on with my life.” However, he also admitted that he “regrets being unable to see the warning signs,” calling Graham a “charismatic psychopath who friends, myself included, mistook for an unstable but ultimately harmless individual.”
> 
> “I have feelings for you that are inappropriate for a patient to have toward his therapist,” Graham wrote of Lecter. Some speculate that Graham's relationship with Dr. Lecter was a catalyst for his killing spree. Lecter referred Graham to a different therapist shortly before his disappearance, citing interpersonal difficulties. When questioned on the subject, Lecter had only one comment: “Will Graham was deeply disturbed. While I regret any role I might have played in failing to prevent this tragedy, referring Will to another psychiatrist was the only ethical course of action.”
> 
> At least Lecter, and the rest of the East coast, can sleep soundly knowing that this ruthless killer is dead.

~

“The body is its pains, a shrill sentience that hurts and is hugely alarmed by its hurt,” Hannibal reads aloud, “and the body is its scars, thick and forgetful, unmindful of its hurt, unmindful of anything, mute and insensate.” His elegant silhouette is back lit by glowing moonlight, and if Will squints he thinks he can see the stars. “The body, this intensely—and sometimes, as in pain, obscenely—alive tissue is also the thing that allows us to be one day dead.”

 _The Body In Pain._ A lyrical philosophy of human suffering, so morbidly appropriate that he almost could have written it himself.

“Allows us to be one day dead,” Will repeats, closing his eyes. It's a funny thing, living on the razor edge between life and death. He can't remember which one he's supposed to be afraid of.

“Do you resent your mortality?” Hannibal asks.

“No.” Will laughs. It’s such an obvious question. “I resent my body. I resent being chained to this…” he grasps for the word. Pain makes even short-term memory more difficult. “This obscenely alive tissue. I feed it oxygen and water and—” his eyes narrow and flicker to Hannibal “—nutrients, even though I don't care, even though I don't want it anymore. All so I can continue to hurt indefinitely.”

“Do you believe your higher purpose is to endure pain?”

Will shrugs. “I've handed my autonomy over to you. You tell me.”

The body is its scars, and Will's are numerous and varied—purple and yellow bruises bloom across his abdomen; two finger splints adorn his right hand, three on his left, keeping the broken phalanges alined; bright pink lacerations scab over the soles of his feet. He hasn't had morphine in far too long, and his joints are throbbing, his skin is hypersensitive, and, worst of all the withdrawal effects, he is desperately aroused. He's been numb for so long that now every sensation overwhelms him.

He lies on his front because he hasn't lost his sense of self-preservation, yet. Hannibal has sex with him at his discretion only, and might not be happy to find Will hard without permission. He demands constant awe. Will knows this—that's what the broken fingers were about—but the bed is warm and smells of his cologne, and the fine silk caresses Will's cock, and the fear is slipping away by degrees.

“I cannot give your life meaning,” Hannibal says. “I can carry you to the threshold, but you must take the first step yourself.”

“So if I agree with you, will you hurt me more?”

Hannibal chuckles and replaces the book on his alphabetized shelf. “Yes,” he says.

“Then I believe my higher purpose is to feel as much pleasure as I can before I die.”

“Quite the hedonist, aren't you?” Hannibal says, as if he has any right to criticize. “The Will Graham I knew had loftier ambitions. Saving lives, perhaps.”

Will frowns. “The Will Graham you knew doesn't exist anymore. He never did.”

“A compassionate front to mask your selfish desires.”

Will is acutely aware of his selfish desires. He shifts his hips ever-so-slightly, and even that brief friction is blissful. “I know you want me to say that I enjoy the pain—”

“I don't want you to say anything, Will.” Hannibal sits on the bed; the mattress sags and drags the fabric of the sheets against Will's cock. “I don't need permission. I have complete control of your body. If I want to hurt you, I will hurt you.”

He squints at Hannibal until the sharp edges begin to blur. “You want to hurt me now,” he says. It's an accusation. He saw Hannibal move a satchel of tools from the basement to the nightstand. He didn't get a good look at them, but surmises that they're not the kind of tools he could use to repair an engine.

He props himself up on his elbows to better look at Hannibal, because he can't seem to communicate sincerity without eye contact. That was frustrating back when he had to communicate with other people. “No games,” he says. “Whatever it is, I'll let you do it, and I'll react however you want.”

Hannibal cocks his head, as if this is an unexpected turn of events, rather than the easy submission he planted in Will's mind and has spent months nurturing.

He's playing into Hannibal's hands, but he's too tired, too sore; he's craving too hard to care. It's been a long, long time.

“What do you want, anyway?” Will asks. “You don't want to kill me, at least not yet, so there must be something holding your interest.”

“You hold my interest,” Hannibal says, but Will turns away from him, warming his other cheek against the mattress.

“Should I beg you to stop?” He asks. He can't keep that sardonic edge out of his voice. “Should I beg for more? Do you like crying, or should I try to hold back?” It's satisfying to drag it out into the open like this, and give flesh and bone to the formless nightmares.

“I want you to react naturally,” says Hannibal. “You believe I get sexual gratification from torturing you. Think of it instead as an experiment. I want to understand how the human psyche, specifically your psyche, reacts under extreme conditions.”

“Fine,” says Will. He runs his hands through his hair. “Torture me. Experiment on me. I'll submit to whatever…sadistic urge you're going to use my body to fulfill. I can be genuine. Just please, Doctor Lecter,  _please_  give me some morphine first.”

Hannibal isn't looking at him. He's looking out the window at the waxing moon, soft light catching his cheekbones but never illuminating his irises. Will is reminded of those gaunt horsemen he's seen in classical paintings, and wonders whether Hannibal would be Death or Famine. Both seem fitting.

“I'll need to restrain you first,” he says.

“I'll need the painkillers first,” says Will.

Hannibal's face remains expressionless, but his shoulders tense and he sits up straighter. “I cannot trust that you won't resist once you have what you want.”

“You know I can't,” Will says. “And if I did, it wouldn't even be an inconvenience.”

Hannibal raises a hand to silence him. “A compromise,” he says. “Your typical dose is forty milligrams. You can either have twenty right now, before I restrain you, or you can have eighty after you cooperate.”

Will blinks. He tries to imagine the rush that eighty milligrams of morphine could produce. Like his first time, in the box, that glorious warmth which he's never quite been able to recapture. Twenty would barely soothe the pain in his joints. Maybe provide some token resistance against whatever Hannibal has planned for him, if he's lucky.

“Twenty now, twenty after,” Will says.

Hannibal shakes his head. “You are not in a position to bargain,” he says. “Half now, or double later. Those are your options.”

It all comes down to a simple question: does he trust Hannibal?

No, of course he doesn't. But it's been so long, and eighty milligrams—pleasure more intense than any orgasm—is a tempting offer.

“Fine,” he says after a moment of debate. “Eighty. What do you need me to do?”

Hannibal smiles as he opens the bedside drawer, revealing four pairs of padded shackles. “Turn over. Spread your arms and legs,” he says.

Will hesitates. His cock is still hard and throbbing against his belly, but he reasons that the morphine will take care of that. He rolls onto his back in one quick movement, like ripping off a bandaid. Hannibal's eyes are on him in an instant, and it takes a lot longer than an instant for his gaze to migrate back to Will's face. He belatedly realizes that Hannibal has been able to smell his arousal this entire time.

“Withdrawals,” he mumbles, looking to the side. He can't control the blood rushing to his cheeks. Or to his cock.

For a moment he's afraid Hannibal will punish him—squeeze his balls until he's soft again, fuck him dry, call it poetic justice or something like that—but he says, “You're having a perfectly normal reaction.”

Will manages a smile. He doesn't hear that every day.

Without a sound he spreads his legs; his cock bobs and bounces against his belly. Self-conscious vulnerability urges him to cover himself, but Hannibal is faster, and by the time the thought crosses Will's mind he's already anchored both feet to the bedposts. The handcuffs follow. Will tries to keep his breathing under control, but it's always difficult when Hannibal asserts his dominance like this.

The next piece of equipment looks like a massage pillow. Hannibal slides it under his head. It's so snug that he can't even look from side to side. This is awfully elaborate, and Will is starting to have second thoughts, but he's powerless to prevent Hannibal from wrapping a thick neck brace around his exposed throat. It's all foam and plastic, medical grade, but brutally restrictive. Now he can't move his head up or down, either.

“Hannibal?” He asks, unable to hide the tremor in his voice. “Can I have my morphine now?”

Hannibal doesn't acknowledge him. He's adjusting some kind of metal contraption, something that Will can only see out of the corner of his eye but seems nevertheless familiar. He doesn't realize why until it’s forced into his mouth. It ratchets his jaws open, wider and wider until Will thinks the corners of his lips will tear.

“I need something from you,” says Hannibal, pulling on a pair of gloves.

A blurry, metallic object enters his field of vision. Dental pliers.

“Nng, ahh, aah!” Will groans through his gag. He knew the offer was too good to be true. This is where optimism gets him.

“Quiet, Will; complaining will not make this less painful. Show me you can take it.” The steel jaws of the pliers grip one of his lower back molars. Will writhes on the bed; he tries to shake his head but can't move a centimeter. Saliva pools under his tongue.

“Nnng! Eeth, eeth, Hannigh—”

Hannibal squeezes the handle and twists.

Liquid agony shoots up Will's jaw, reverberates around his skull, and triggers an immediate, throbbing headache. He sucks in a great gasp of air and screams at the top of his lungs.

The tooth isn't even halfway dislodged and Hannibal still pulling. The molar's thick roots shift deep inside his jaw, slowly twisting free of the adhering flesh. Will sobs and wails until the tooth suddenly rips out of his gum, and fresh, hot blood wells up in its place.

Pain and nausea darken his vision.  _I'm going to black out,_ he thinks,  _thank God._

He awakens, disoriented, to find Hannibal's fingers in his mouth, packing the wound with gauze. Will groans in frustration. He can't have been out for more than a minute.

“I'm disappointed,” Hannibal says. His voice sounds far away. “No fainting, Will, you should know better. I expect you to control yourself in the future.”

He wants to scream that it wasn't his fault, that he cannot fucking control his body's natural response to trauma, but even if he weren't gagged he doesn't think he'd bother. Hannibal would take it as a challenge. He sucks in deep, labored breaths and tries to work through the throbbing in his jaw. Acknowledge it. Explore it. Accept it.

Once the bleeding has slowed, Hannibal removes his gloved fingers from Will's mouth—lord knows how badly Will wants to bite them off—and reaches again for the pliers.

“ _Aauuugh,_ ” Will moans. How many teeth can Hannibal pull without impeding his capacity for speech? Does that matter?

It's a good sign that the next tooth to go is directly opposite the first, because concern for symmetry indicates concern for aesthetics. If he's lucky, Hannibal will limit himself to less visible extractions.

“Listen to my voice,” he says, squeezing the tooth hard. “Stay with me. I want you to take a deep breath and exhale on the count of three. Ready? One…two…three.” With a sound like a cracking iceberg, he rips the healthy tooth from Will's gum. The air is forced from his lungs in a terrible scream, but it's over quickly this time. He waves the bloody molar in front of Will face, smiling, speaking. Will can't hear him over the blood pounding through his skull.

His jaw muscles spasm, clenching involuntarily against the steel arms of the gag. Somehow, the spasms are even more painful than the extraction. They engulf his senses entirely.

Hannibal presses gauze into the cavity where his molar used to be, and the pressure dulls the throbbing a little bit. His ears are still ringing by the time the bleeding has slowed. It feels like an ice pick is being slowly driven into his skull.

He places the pliers on a plastic tray on the side table, and for a moment Will thinks it might be over—but it isn't, and he returns with far more sinister tools: something like a miniature chisel and mallet. He’s too foggy to ascertain their purpose until the chisel is in the divot of his upper right molar.

Will has mere seconds to pray that Hannibal won't, and then Hannibal does. He gives the chisel several firm taps, and the tooth shatters in slow motion. He taps until the metal tool penetrates the root, and then he twists it back out again, embedding shards of bone in the surrounding tissue. A loud noise, like the whistle of a steam engine. It takes him a moment to realize it's his own voice.

Hannibal extracts the tooth fragments one by one using long tweezers and a dental mirror. The pain skews Will's perception of time, and he doesn't know if it takes ten minutes or two hours to remove the shards. Several times he drifts to the edge of unconsciousness only to be wrenched back into reality by the bite of the tweezers. He doesn't stop sobbing until the blood has stopped soaking through the layers of gauze in his mouth, and only then because he can’t breathe and cry at the same time.

“Well done,” Hannibal says. He places a tender kiss on Will's sweaty forehead. “One more to go. Remember to stay awake for me.”

One more. The thought keeps his longing for death at bay. One more, and maybe Hannibal will let him pass out. All he has to do is endure.

He's not expecting the single, brutal impact which drives the pick through his tooth and all the way into his jaw. Suddenly his throat burns and he's choking; he can't breathe at all. Something is very wrong. It's not until Hannibal springs into action that he realizes he's vomited from the pain.

His hands are free in seconds. Hannibal hoists him upright, sending a second wave of nausea careening through from Will’s toes to the top of his head. He hunches forward and vomits into his lap, triggering a painful coughing fit. With the aid of Hannibal's fist under his diaphragm, he clears his airway and sucks in a deep, burning breath.

His head stops spinning long enough for him focus on the mess he's made. He dislodged two of the gauze pads, and his mouth is bleeding freely again. The chisel is still embedded in his upper jaw. He hurts too much to support his own weight, so he collapses against Hannibal's chest. 

“You're alright,” Hannibal murmurs into his neck. “Keep breathing; you're going to be okay. Breathe.”

Will can't do much else. Hannibal keeps him upright with one hand and uncuffs his feet with the other, drags his limp body up the bed to prop him up against the headboard. “We're almost done,” he says. “I just need to extract the last tooth, clean the wounds, and give you a few stitches. You're very brave, Will.”

It's a meaningless compliment. He's not brave; he's out of options. If he could escape he'd have done so a long time ago. He drifts in and out of awareness as Hannibal disinfects his mouth and places a single stitch in each hole, stopping the worst of the bleeding first. Last to go are the shards of the forth tooth. He's gentler, has apparently sated his sadism for the time being, but it still hurts and Will still cries. He can't make himself stop until Hannibal removes the gag and stuffs the rest of his mouth full of gauze.

“Bite down,” he says. “You might be sore, but pressure will stop the bleeding.”

Sore is an understatement. He remains limp as Hannibal tucks a pillow behind his head and sets to work cleaning up the vomit with a warm, damp towel.

Will tries to speak through the bloody gauze, but Hannibal silences him. “Don't move your jaw,” he says. “I know you want morphine, but you aren't getting any more, so don't bother asking. You've been clean for three days, you know. It would be a shame to break the streak now.”

There's no point arguing. If he's learned anything in these past few months, it's that no matter how much Hannibal hurts him, he can always make it worse. Will previously assumed there was an upper limit to the magnitude of pain a human being could experience, but he hasn't found it yet.

After about ten minutes, once he's sure Will isn't going to vomit again, Hannibal lays him flat on his back. Will watches blearily as he strips off the bloody gloves and slips under the duvet himself. He lifts Will's head into his lap and strokes his hair as the ache subsides. Will is sure that he won't be able to sleep, but the endorphin crash makes him shaky and then makes him still, and in just a few minutes he passes out in Hannibal's lap.

~

Will took his old life for granted. It's easy to see now that the grass used to be greener, the sky used to be cloudless, and it used to be easy for him to meet his basic needs.

The IV in his hand keeps him hydrated. Everything else is a struggle. It's cold in this metal cupboard, and he might be comfortable if he were clothed, but clothing is one of the many luxuries he can only wish he appreciated more in his past life. The last thing he ever wore was a pair of blue cotton boxer-briefs. Part of him is afraid that he will spend the rest of his life naked, but the fear is buried under heavy, overwhelming apathy.

His fingers dip into his concave abdomen, and if he could lift his hand further, he knows he'd feel ribs protruding in high relief, like a stone carving of Jesus on the cross. His stomach is slowly eating itself. Perhaps crucifixion would be less painful.

The saline drip has caused another problem—he has to piss. If he looks down he can actually see the protruding bulge of his bladder under his empty stomach, and the longer he waits, the worse it gets.

Hannibal must know. He wouldn't leave Will here with a saline drip but no way to relieve himself.  
"Hannibal?" He asks aloud.

He can't hear his own voice. The headphones continue their hypnotic loop, indifferent.

"Hannibal?" He asks again. "I need to, ah. Need the toilet.”

A few minutes pass, but no response is forthcoming—and honestly, Will doesn't have a few minutes to spare. He takes his cock in hand and prays there's a drain on the floor.

Will used to be shy. He used to use stalls in public bathrooms because he couldn't let go with somebody else watching him, but that reluctance seems to have disappeared along with his self-respect, and now it only takes him a second to get the stream started even though he knows he's on camera. He's careful to aim for the floor rather than the wall. That means that he's mostly pissing on his own feet, hot liquid splashing his legs before pattering to the ground, but it's a lot better than accidentally electrocuting his dick. He was so full that release feels as good as coming. Not quite as good as coming in Hannibal's mouth.

To his relief, it drains away. His feet and legs are wet and the cell smells like piss now, but overall, the experience is less humiliating than he expected.

He listens. Time passes.

His eyes are dry from the constant light, back and forth and back and forth, wiping his mind with each pass like a sleeve on a whiteboard. He touches the wall with his knuckle and endures the shock just to shut it off for a few minutes, but he can see the pendulum swinging even in the dark.

He catches snippets, once in awhile, if he concentrates—"forget" and "recall" and "satisfy." If he knows what they mean, he keeps the knowledge secure in his subconscious and does not let it surface.

The trouble is that in trying to repress it, he instead becomes uncomfortably aware of his surroundings, and if he allows himself to fully appreciate the fact that his entire world is the size of a gym locker, he panics. He trembles and touches the walls and he's electrocuted again and again and again. It's a delicate balancing act, to simultaneously absorb and ignore the toxic words draining into him like factory runoff.

Time does not exist in this container, but his body continues to grow tired, weak, and above all, hungry. He's grateful when the physical pain finally overcomes the mental pain, and, despite Hannibal's preference that he suffer in silence, he is forced to beg.

"H-help," he moans. "Please, Doctor Lecter, I'm starving. I'm going to faint."

He waits, but there is no sign that Hannibal has even heard him. His voice drones on in a predictable, despicable pattern.

"Please.” Hannibal has never starved him this long before. He can't remember the last thing he ate. He can't remember most things.

He steels himself and brushes his knuckles against the wall. Electricity jolts through him but he remains standing, grits his teeth, and it's over in a second. The lights go out; the mantra fades to static.

"Doctor Lecter, I'm so hungry. Please, please—" and suddenly, with his head cleared of that incessant recording, the solution occurs to him.

Hannibal wants to hear him say it.

God knows he doesn't want to do this, but death by starvation is slow and painful. Stomach acid threatens to dissolve his abdominal wall and burn rivulets down his legs.

"Hannibal," he says, voice quiet and shaky. “I'm starving. Feed me anybody you want.” The sound buzzes in the back of his throat but doesn't reach his ears, and that makes it a little easier. "Feed me human flesh, Hannibal, I need to eat. Please, fuck…please let me eat your—your victims. I'll do anything." He knows the words should sicken him. What sickens him is the numb indifference he feels instead.  
At last Hannibal's voice cuts through the static, warm and merciful.

"Human flesh," it muses. Will's heart flutters, or maybe that's just stress-induced arrhythmia. "I'm afraid I'm fresh out—but if you stay put for a moment I'll see what I can do."

The next thing he sees, after the darkness, is Hannibal's silhouette. It might have been imposing, once, but now it is only familiar. He's too tired to be afraid.

Hannibal slips a soft, form-fitting hood over his head and everything goes black again. He tightens a pull cord around his neck, snug but not suffocating. With Hannibal's guiding hands on his wrists he stumbles out of the cell and onto concrete, cool against his battered feet. He's so weak that he can barely walk without support.

Will trusts him to lead him forward safely. The idea of trusting Hannibal is revolting, but he has made sure there's nothing left for Will to put his faith in. He certainly can't trust himself anymore. They don't go far, just ten paces forward. Suddenly the hairs on the back of Will's neck prickle to attention.

They're not alone.

Hannibal's mouth is so close to his ear that his breath tickles the fresh, throbbing piercing. "Listen," he says, loud enough to permeate the headphones. "Are you listening?"

At first there is only static and the slight shuffle of the microphone moving, but then he hears it. Faint, labored breathing. It's a pain-stricken sound he knows far too well.

"Step forward three paces and extend your hand," Hannibal says into the microphone.

Will obeys with unsteady feet, gingerly lifts his arm, and grabs a handful of the exact thing he was dreading: living flesh. It's warm and smooth, slick with perspiration, soft. Probably a woman's. He yanks his hand away as if he's been burned. He has questions, but thinks he'd be better off without answers, so he says nothing.

"I want you to see with your hands,” says Hannibal. “Assess the quality of the meat."

Will doesn't want to—god knows he would rather not participate in the objectification of this person, who must have had a life before Hannibal, who will not have a life after him—but he's cornered. He's dying. He takes a step forward and grabs two fistfuls of the naked torso, squeezing and massaging the fat and muscle, mapping the form with his hands. The body twitches but doesn't make a sound aside from wheezing breaths. She's not gagged, which probably means Hannibal has done something to her vocal cords.

He finds two full breasts which fit nicely in each hand. It's surreal; this is the first time he's touched a naked woman in years, may well be the last time, and yet he is utterly revolted. She's beautiful, and he wants to be gentle with her. He wishes he could do this under any other circumstances.

But Hannibal is watching.

He explores her muscular arms and soft, springy thighs. She's bound to the chair, legs spread, with rope pulled bone-crushingly tight above and below each joint. He doesn't have to see to tell that it's cutting off her circulation to a dangerous degree. That reassures him. There’s nothing he can do for her now.

She shudders when he touches her face. Her bone structure seems uncomfortably familiar, so he moves immediately to the hair, long and curly and damp with sweat, and then down the torso again to rest at the junction of her thighs and hips, thumbs against her clean-shaven pubic mound and, tentatively, lower. She's wet.

He pulls his hands immediately to his chest, a terrible image flashing behind his eyelids. “Tell me you didn't,” he says.

Hannibal speaks into the microphone. "I'm not a savage. She offered her body to me in exchange for her life, but I of course refused.”

“Then why is she—?” He can't bring himself to say the word 'aroused,' because he refuses to accept that arousal is a possible response to this situation.

“Perhaps she is like you,” Hannibal muses.

Will remains silent. Any reply would be incriminating.

After a moment, something cool is pressed into his upturned palm. Will passes it from hand to hand, getting a feel for its shape and weight. A meat cleaver. He is horrified but not the least bit surprised.

"Remember what happened last time you turned my knife on me, and use your best judgment," says Hannibal.

"What do I do?" His voice sounds thin, especially through the hood and earphones.

"Cut off the part you want," says Hannibal.

Will swallows bile. He recognized that face. This is somebody he knows, though he's not sure who. She can't speak, can't move to defend herself. He says, "It won't be clean, if I use this.”

"It won't," Hannibal agrees.

"It's going to kill her," he hedges, though he doesn't really think it will make a difference. He's buying time.

"If it doesn't, I will," Hannibal says with an infuriating air of dispassion.

She can't be saved. That's what Will tells himself as he brings the sharp cleaver down on her right thigh in a shining, brutal arc. It sinks into her flesh with sickly resistance and she flinches with her whole body, though she doesn't make a sound except to ratchet up her breathing into a quick, high staccato. A mist of warm blood sprays Will's trembling legs.

He can't help but put himself in her place. Not the physical pain—but the terror, the frustration, the faintest hint of morbid, ironic satisfaction. The last one could be Hannibal’s. He’s too muddled to tell.

The blade makes a terrible squelch as he wrenches it out of her. Bones crack under the next impact, and the sound makes Will feel ill, but he keeps hacking away. The weapon grows heavier with each strike. He's going to pass out from the exertion. His body is already eating itself; he doesn't have the energy to destroy hers.

After a few more feeble slashes, he collapses to his knees, panting heavily. The cleaver clatters to the ground. “I can't finish,” he gasps. “I'm sorry. Can you please...”

Hannibal takes pity on him, for once. He brushes against Will's shoulder as he retrieves the cleaver, and after four impressively loud slices, the leg falls to the ground with a dull thump.

Will swallows. “Thank you,” he says quietly. He is completely drenched in blood. A lot of it sprayed his face. The smell is simultaneously revolting and mouth-watering.

"Quite an appetite," Hannibal says. “All this for yourself?”

Will doesn't say anything, just kneels with his head down and allows his victim's frantic gasps to fill the silence.

"I appreciate that you did your best," Hannibal says. "We'll eat, and then perhaps you'd enjoy a few days outside of solitary confinement."

The offer sounds heavenly, but as much as Will wants his freedom, he has to know what's going to happen to her. "Are you—" he swallows. His mouth is so dry. "Are you going to close the wound?"

"You've severed her femoral artery, Will. I am not a miracle worker."

"So you're going to leave her here to die?"

Hannibal's voice moves closer. "There is a drain in the floor. I'm going to let her exsanguinate while you and I prepare dinner, yes. Later we can freeze the leftovers."

"Doctor Lecter," Will says, and then he catches himself. He wants so badly to ask, but another favor will only land him further in Hannibal's debt, which he is already afraid he will never be able to repay.

He rises shakily to his feet and stumbles forward, drawing his palm across the freshly-stitched wound through which Hannibal must have severed her vocal cords. He doesn't have to see her face to know with gruesome intimacy the agony etched upon it.

"Doctor Lecter," he says more firmly, "please let me kill her."

"You've already killed her," Hannibal says, an inappropriate note of amusement tainting his voice. Will has come to accept that Hannibal enjoys his suffering—in some strange, detached way he's learning to enjoy it himself, or at least learning to appreciate the poetry in pain—but he wishes for a little bit of empathy toward this innocent victim. He knows a little bit of empathy is far too much to ask.

“I want to be here when she dies,” Will says, choosing his words carefully. He knows what Hannibal wants to hear. “I want to…feel it happen. Make her mine. Please, let me kill her.”

Hannibal hesitates. Is he really going to buy such a transparent excuse? But after a moment he passes the bloody weapon back to Will.

"Thank you,” Will says.

He searches for something more, for words significant enough to mark this woman's last moments on Earth, but comes up empty-handed.

"Goodbye," he says, and slashes her throat.

He doesn't know the meaning behind Hannibal's careful silence, doesn't know if the woman's final seconds are painful or peaceful—but he knows when she dies. It's sobering and difficult to articulate. One moment there are three living souls in the room, and the next there are two.

"Don't you want to know who she was?" Hannibal asks, once the moment has passed.

"No," says Will. They climb the stairs.

~

The countryside is less impressive than the travel guides in Hannibal's library make it out to be. It rolls past in a grayish haze, the overcast sky flattening the scenery like low-budget sitcom lighting.  


"I don't think we should be discussing this on the train," Will says, tapping his fingers rapidly on the table between them.

"Nobody is listening," says Hannibal. "And very few of these commuters will be fluent enough in English to understand us, even if they are."

"I'd still rather not talk about it."

Hannibal frowns.

For some reason, Will is absolutely desperate to please him. It's the root of most of his problems these days. "Sorry," he says, before Hannibal can lecture him once more on the benefits of acknowledging his trauma.

"There is no need to apologize. I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable," Hannibal says. "If you'd like to change the subject— "

"No," Will says, too quickly. "No, it's just. It's hard to say out loud, I guess. It still hurts."

Hannibal places his hand on Will's, a gesture of camaraderie which nevertheless sends chills up his spine. "Look how far you've come," Hannibal says. "Your body has healed enough to allow this excursion, and with time and patience, your mind will follow. I promise you, the memories will not always be this painful."

Will scoffs. "Healed? I  _begged_  you to leave the house," he says. "You thought I wasn't ready."

"I thought that the city might be too overwhelming for your first venture back into society," Hannibal corrects. "But you must remember that I can never see the world from your perspective. Nobody can but you. I am merely a guide, Will, not an arbiter."

"We're visiting the cathedral against your better judgment."

"Yes," Hannibal says, “but you believe you are ready, and I believe you.” He squeezes Will's hand. "Perhaps you can trust my judgment in therapy, at least. If not for your own sake, then for mine. I promise that talking about it now will lessen the damage in the long run."

“Caffè?”

Will startles. He didn't see the steward approach them, but there she is, close enough to overhear. He nods hastily and accepts a small cup of coffee, if only to free his hand from Hannibal's grip. "Grazie," he says.

"No, grazie," says Hannibal, and Will doubts for a moment that accepting the drink was the polite thing to do. He shoots Hannibal a questioning gaze once the steward has passed.

Hannibal chuckles. "Enjoy first class," he says. "It's complimentary."

Will nods and blows on the small cup of steaming coffee, allowing himself to appreciate these few seconds of quiet before the storm.

But a storm will not change its course for one man, and Hannibal's smile quickly fades. "Tell me what happened next," he says. "Recall for me."

Will opens his mouth and is overcome by the creeping, nauseating recollection, so he takes a sip of coffee to buy time. He grimaces. It’s much stronger than he expected.

"I should have warned you," Hannibal says, smiling once more at Will's expense. "It’s espresso, not coffee."

Will swallows. "Oh," he says.

He finishes the cup in a few long sips, though he doesn't like the taste and doesn't really want it. He’s can only buy so much time.

"I did eat it," he says at last, careful to keep his voice low. “Eat her. For a few days, I think, that was all I ate. The leg was, uh, clay baked."

Hannibal nods, and for once doesn't comment on the method of preparation, thankfully. Will already suspects he's more interested in the Ripper's recipes than in his motivations.

“Did you enjoy it?” He says. Always asking the last question Will wants to answer.

"It was one of the best meals I've ever eaten, but starvation does that to a person, I guess." Will shrugs, staring pensively out the window. He can't meet Hannibal's eyes when he's admitting things like this. "It wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't found out who she was."

"He identified the body?"

Will shakes his head. He's regretting that he drank his espresso so quickly, because the caffeine is making that nervous tapping worse, more compulsive, and he once again has nothing to do with his hands. "No. I think he tried to hide it, even. I helped him, uh, butcher the corpse. And when I got down there the head was already gone. Seeing, though…" he sighs. "I could still tell."

He is silent, waiting for Will to elaborate, and when he doesn't, Hannibal does that awful thing that therapists always do and rephrases the last thing Will said as a question.

"You could still tell?"

"Yes," Will says, and he's tempted to leave it at that, if only to prove to Hannibal that lazy therapy isn't going to work on him. But that's petty, and he knows it, so he says, "I could tell by her body."

"Had you seen her naked before?"

“It was obvious. Petite, pale. Freckles on her shoulders." The image is so vivid in his mind that he has to pause to take it all in—the headless torso still bleeding sluggishly on the concrete, milky white and losing more color every second. A human being reduced to an object by Will's hand. "Mostly, though, it was…” he swallows. “She was a natural redhead."

Hannibal frowns. “I see.”

They both take a moment to look out the window at the countryside flying past, trees and farms and the occasional pedestrian. It's almost three in the afternoon and it still hasn't rained. Dark clouds roll across the sky like a death march.

"Freddie disappeared, didn't she," Will asks without inflection, without turning away from the window. "And they never found a body."

Hannibal's lips draw tight; his eyebrows furrow. "About four months into your captivity," he says. "As you know, she wasn't well liked. She made a lot of enemies. Her abduction wasn't much of a shock. There was a running joke in the bureau," Hannibal shakes his head, "that her last interview was a little too exclusive. I thought it rather tasteless."

"Everything about Freddie Lounds was tasteless," Will says. "Except her leg."

Neither of them laugh. Will isn't himself sure if that was supposed to be funny.

"Did you feel any less guilt after you identified the body?" Hannibal asks.

"I didn't feel guilty," Will says. He's surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth, and even more surprised to find them true. "I did the best that I could with what I was given. I put her out of her misery."

"Did you feel guilty eating her?" Hannibal asks. He's already asked that question, which means he just wants to hear Will say it again. Why?

His tapping fingers still. The nervous energy is gone, directed inward.

"I was starving to death," he says, suddenly reserved.

Hannibal nods. "You are not the first to commit cannibalism out of necessity, nor will you be the last."

"If I had cared, though…” He sighs. “I would have died in her place. I should have."

“Would he have allowed that?”

Will shrugs. He doesn't know, doesn't want to speculate.

He sees the next question collecting on Hannibal's lips like a drop of morning dew; he prays it is not heavy enough to fall.

"Did you enjoy killing her?"

Will frowns and shakes his head 'no', blinking back angry tears, offended that Hannibal would ask him that,  _furious_  that the question is necessary at all. He isn't going to let himself cry on the train, isn't going to give Hannibal the satisfaction. It's just not going to happen.

He bites his lip, swallows the painful lump in the back of his throat, and reminds himself that he won't get better if he keeps lying to his therapist.

“Yes,” he says. He laughs, sort and sharp. His fingers drum uncontrollably on the table. “I did. You know that I did, Hannibal. I felt so fucking _alive_ —” and then he realizes that he's crying, god  _damn_  it, and turns back to the window so no one but Hannibal has to see.

~

Freddie Lounds is neither his first nor last victim. In the grand scheme of things, her murder is only significant because Will knew her in life. The people he butchers after her, three that he can remember, are all randoms—people who have somehow angered Hannibal, mostly abducted from rich neighborhoods and gated communities—who probably had elaborate, closed-casket funerals but were missed about as much as Freddie Lounds was missed. Will doesn't think they deserve what he does to them, but he wouldn't go so far as to call them innocents.

He barely remembers the weeks between the murders, because he spends most of that time locked in the cupboard, listening to Hannibal's looping tape, as braindead as a person can be by choice. He is, however, afforded privileges for his cooperation. After Freddie, Hannibal lowers the bars in the cell, giving Will access to the seat. His prison becomes much more comfortable.

The second victim is a young man in his mid twenties, healthy and well-muscled with bright eyes and a bright future ahead of him. Will slits his throat and guts him like a fish.

With a little encouragement and some mild dissociation, he explores the corpse's abdominal cavity, rips out the motionless heart with his bare hands, and finds himself drenched head to toe in sticky, warm blood. He is still not quite himself when Hannibal steps from the shadows and orders him to kneel in the pool of blood and entrails, which Will does without question, and suck him off.

It's the most disgusting thing he's ever done, but he sort of enjoys it. Hannibal is affectionate, and in Will's hellish existence, that little big goes a long way. He doesn't fuck Will's throat, though he can take it, instead letting him work at his own pace, which is excruciatingly slow. He has no guarantee that he won't be confined again as soon as this is over.

He's become desensitized to gore. The only thing that bothers him now is the smell of decay, and he's learned that fresh corpses aren't so bad as long as the intestines are left intact. He doesn't mind sitting in it, this warm pile of blood and guts. Maybe he even likes it a little bit. He squishes organs between his fingers as he bobs up and down on Hannibal's cock, amusing himself by figuring out which ones will pop. He leaves bloody handprints on the backs of Hannibal's bare thighs, and preens under his gentle attention.

Afterward, he and Hannibal make pot roast and enjoy a pleasant dinner and a bath. He falls asleep in Hannibal's bed, listening to him read poetry. The young man's life almost seems worth this.

Hannibal turns off the electrified walls, allowing Will some rest. By the time they finish eating the second victim and locate a suitable third, Will is catching on.

“I want something else to listen to during the day,” he says, eyeing the squirming meat Hannibal has all but gift-wrapped for him. “And I want the headphones off at night so I can sleep.”

His next kill is another male about Hannibal's age, who is aging much less gracefully than Hannibal: chubby, greying, well dressed but sporting a truly atrocious comb-over. Will meets his terrified gaze and doesn't feel even a spark of compassion. Shutting off his empathy like this takes concentrated effort, but it's a skill which has become crucial to his continued survival.

That doesn't mean he thinks this man deserves to die. While some of Hannibal's victims are truly evil people, most of them are irritating at best—but Hannibal plays judge and jury in this sham trial. Will is only the executioner. If he lets his conscience get the best of him, Hannibal will make his life a living hell. He isn't allowed the luxury of death, but Hannibal never tires of finding ways to make him beg for it.

The murder of this man, one Alfred Baker, is the most favorable outcome of a truly unfavorable situation. Feeling sorry for him won't do any good. He's going to suffer no matter what happens. That doesn't mean Will has to.

Hannibal considers him, his cool gaze flitting between the victim, who is struggling for his life, and Will, whose posture suggests only apathy. “I'm sure you understand that the recordings are an important part of your therapy,” he says.

Hannibal has butchered the definition of 'therapy' beyond recognition, but he definitely knows that already.

“It is true, however, that your mind cannot handle much more sleep deprivation, and perhaps a few hours of opera a week would benefit your…development.”

Will tries not to act too visibly excited, because he wouldn't put it past Hannibal to retract the offer just to enjoy his disappointment. “Opera would be nice,” he says. “You don't want my brain to melt. I'm of no use to you if I'm crazy.” He has no way of knowing this—has no way of knowing that he isn't already crazy, come to think of it—and can only hope that he's right.

“A deal, then,” says Hannibal. “Six hours of silence and two hours of opera a day, _if_ you can impress me.”

Impress me. Will wants to pretend he doesn't know what that entails, but he does. His previous kills have been quick and relatively humane, which Hannibal has allowed but by no means appreciated. He has committed murder, yes, but the Ripper is not a murderer. He's an artist.

So Will takes a step back and tries to view the opportunity through a camera lens. They are not in the business of displaying corpses for the police to appreciate, at least not right now, and Will gets the feeling that most of those tableaus were for his benefit anyway, so that means the artistry must be in the execution. After all, the creative process is just as important as the product, if not more so.  
“Tell me about him,” Will sighs, pacing a slow circle around the chair.

Hannibal nods. “Certainly. He was well-respected defense attorney, Harvard educated. His wife—”

“Don't,” Will says, raising a hand. “Not about his family, please. I'm new to this.”

“Which is why I've given you an easy target, William,” Hannibal says sharply. “Do not interrupt me again.”

He casts his gaze downward. “I'm sorry, Doctor Lecter.” He thinks it's shallow that Hannibal is more amicable when Will calls him by his title, as if he needs his already massive ego stroked, but he keeps that to himself.

“His wife, Janet Baker, was a friend of mine,” Hannibal continues. “She had a rare eye for aesthetics, and worked as a curator at the Baltimore Museum of Art until last November, when she hit her head in a skiing accident and fell into a coma. I was a frequent visitor at her bedside until the very end.”

The story doesn't interest Will nearly as much as the man's reaction to its telling. Behind the tape gag his face has gone bright red; he screams and thrashes as much as the rope allows, which is very little.

“To my knowledge, her husband visited her exactly once, to authorize the discontinuation of her life support. He then used her life insurance money to elope with his secretary to Belize.” Hannibal turns to Will with a small smile, almost as if he's expecting Will to congratulate him on a good catch.

“You're right,” Will says, grimacing. “Easy target.”

The circumstances don't justify his murder, not by a long shot, but they soothe the withered remains of Will's guilty conscience.

He circles the chair once more. A terrible idea is already germinating in the back of his mind, like wild mint taking root on a riverbank, starving out all weaker life.

Will crouches so he's eye to eye with his blubbering victim. He smiles, baring his teeth. “You're going to die like your wife died, Mr. Baker: isolated and afraid. She had Hannibal for company, I suppose, but I don't feel like sharing today.” He straightens abruptly. “I'll need some tools.”

Alfred Baker's murder will be Will's fifth—after Garrett Jacob Hobbes, Dr. Mitchel Sanderson, Freddie Lounds, and the attractive young man whose entrails interested Will more than his name—but Will has never tortured anybody before. He can't say he's never thought about it, but those were always quick, simplistic shower fantasies, and they were always about Hannibal.

He remembers one which was particularly vibrant, about pulling Hannibal's teeth one by one and then fucking the bloody hole, and he remembers the guilt and self-loathing which immediately followed release. Broken bones, torn ligaments, slow strangling—those desires were all tame compared to the pain Hannibal has put him through. How different his would his life be now if he had given in to his instincts and cut Hannibal some new orifices? 

Maybe the fantasies were somehow prophetic. Maybe some deep part of him has always seen Hannibal's true nature, and the overwhelming desire to hurt him was only a natural response to gazing into the abyss.

But even if that's true, none of it matters now. He didn't act when he had the chance.

At least he has Mr. Baker—this sobbing, pathetic cow—and he has scalpels, and iron skewers, and a stainless steel melon baller, and a callous disregard for the value of human life. He squeezes the melon baller, watches the curved blade travel across the spoon and back again, and wonders if Hannibal has used it for this exact purpose before.

“Are you going to keep your eyes open for me, or do I need to cut off your eyelids?” Will asks playfully, more for Hannibal's benefit than for his victim's. Will is a method actor, and he's getting pretty good at 'cute, flirty sociopath.'

The man shakes his head vigorously, but Will grips his chin to stop him. He's not strong, not anymore, but he's intimidating. The scalpels help. He sits on Mr. Baker's lap and brandishes one in his face, smiling when his eyes cross in an attempt to focus. With two quick, precise motions, Will removes both of his eyelids.

The man screams louder and tries to buck him off, but even in his emaciated state Will is too heavy to dislodge. He looks to Hannibal for approval, pleased to see him watching intently. In a fit of morbid curiosity—and, yes, partially to impress Hannibal—he pops one of the eyelids in his mouth and chews. It doesn't taste like much. Sort of like biting off a hangnail, flesh without substance. But Hannibal is pitching a tent in his suit pants, not even trying to hide it, and so Will smiles coyly and eats the other one.

“That's better,” he says, smearing a trickle of blood across his victim's cheek. “Now. I can't make you hold still for this next part, but it might not hurt as badly if you do.”

With careful, patient movements, he digs the spoon of the melon baller into the man's eye socket, ignoring his desperate thrashing. When it's all the way in he squeezes the handle, just to make sure he's severed the optic nerve, and then the eyeball pops out in one undamaged piece. He holds it up to the light to examine it. The brown iris looks redder from this angle.

“Are eyes any good?” Will asks, rolling it around in his palm. It's squishy and slippery with a glassy sheen, like an oversized marble. Its donor groans and gurgles like he's about to choke on his own tongue. It would be easier for everybody if he did.

“Fish eyes are a delicacy enjoyed around the world. They're both kosher and halal,” Hannibal says, “and the Inuits often eat them raw. Why western chefs are so quick to discard them is beyond me.”

Will squeezes it experimentally and, surprised to find himself less than nauseated, he shrugs and pops it into his mouth. He rolls the orb around on his tongue for a few seconds before catching it between his back molars and biting down. There's a slight resistance and then a burst of sweet liquid. It's a lot like a cherry tomato in both taste and texture, minus the seeds.

“Hm,” he says. “Not bad.”

He easily scoops the other one out of its socket and beckons Hannibal closer.

Hannibal smiles and allows Will to feed him the eye. As Will watches him savor it—and he does savor it, the absolute freak—he is only peripherally aware of Mr. Baker's ruined body struggling beneath him. Any humanity Will might have accidentally afforded him was removed with his eyes, and now he and Hannibal are the only people in the room.

Pride radiates off Hannibal in golden waves. Will wants to kiss him, but he has work to do, so instead he takes a skewer in hand and lines it up with dinner's right ear canal.

“I know you want me to kill you, Alfred,” he says, “and I promise I'll do it soon—well, today, at least—so you have that to look forward to. But first I'm going to puncture your eardrums. It's going to hurt like hell, I won't lie to you, but at least you won't have to hear us discussing how best to cook your corpse.” He grins. “Ready?”

Without waiting for a response, he jabs the pointed skewer deep into the ear until it will go no further, eliciting an inhuman howl of pain, and then repeats the process on the other side. This is more fun than he was expecting. He might have to put on a mask in order to accommodate the growth of his budding sadism, but he's surprised to find that he doesn't have to become someone else entirely. He doesn't have to become Hannibal.

Perhaps the revelation would have scared or disgusted the old Will—the weak, neurotic teacher who was driven to tears by guilt he felt for  _other_  people's crimes—but that man is dead now. Will killed him, and his conscience is clear.

“His wife would have died of asphyxiation, right? If she wasn't breathing on her own?” Even as he asks the question Will is busy tying a noose. As a sailor he's always been good with knots, but this one is especially well-rehearsed.

“A fan of poetic justice, aren't you?” Says Hannibal, a melodic note of pleasure in his voice.

Will smiles. “I learned from the best.”

~

He falls to his knees in Il Duomo di Firenze. His only recompense is that perhaps the other churchgoers will think he’s praying. There are several three-word phrases Hannibal could say to bring Will to his knees, but the worst by far is “recall for me.”

Hannibal handles the situation with characteristic discretion. If he is alarmed by the outburst he doesn't show it; instead he kneels beside Will, clasps his hands, and bows his head, saving them both some embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” He asks under his breath, without looking at him.

Will can't speak. He is drowning in the memory, intoxicated and appalled by the unbridled power coursing through him. He is hoisting a struggling body from the rafters, strangling the life out of it in slow increments, laughing—and when it is dead, almost forty-five minutes later, Will turns to the Ripper and kisses him passionately. Alfred Baker hangs above them like mistletoe.

“Lord forgive me,” Will whispers. They pray until he finds the strength to stand. His soul feels no purer for it.

Hannibal rises and silently follows him away from the altar, to a large wrought-iron tree near the cathedral's entrance. At the end of each branch is a single tea candle. Some branches are empty, and on a table next to the tree sit dozens of unlit candles and a modest wooden donation box.

“Votive candles for your prayers?” Hannibal murmurs.

He reaches into his back pocket and counts his change. He has exactly six euros, one for each atrocity, and he drops them one by one into the box. The metallic echo of each is absorbed into the massive resonance of the domed cathedral. Hannibal has the prudence to stay out of the way as Will lights each of six candles, places them on the tree, and bows his head.

They leave without a word. They've only seen a small portion of the church, but it’s clear the tour is over.

Though storm clouds still blanket the city, the light in the piazza is dazzling compared to the dim glow of the Duomo, and Will has to shield his eyes upon exiting. Florence bustles on oblivious to his crisis of conscience. Street vendors hawk their original watercolors and fake Rolexes; exhausted parents console their crying children; tourists gawk and snap photos of Santa Maria del Fiore on their cellphones. Hannibal leads him away from the church with a reassuring hand on the small of his back.

Their destination is a gelato shop on one of the many corners where a narrow side street intersects the piazza. It's small and empty save for the cashier, a man with a grey mustache who greets them in heavily accented English. Too cold for ice cream, Will supposes.

Hannibal immediately approaches the counter. “ _Due coni con due gusti, per favore,_ ” he says. He hands over a note and takes his receipt.

“ _Prego,_ ” says the man.

“ _Un attimo,_ ” Hannibal says, turning to Will. “What would you like?”

It takes Will a moment to process the question, because he thought Hannibal was ordering for him. He's anxious being put on the spot like this, and only glances at the selection before naming the first flavor he can read. “Scoop of pistachio,” he mutters. Despite his best efforts, he is sure that he's blushing bright red.

Hannibal is eloquent enough for the both of them, as usual, and smiles at the cashier as he orders in fluent Italian. “ _Per la prima, vorrei amarena y…cioccolato fondente extra noir._ ”

Will watches the man pile two generous scoops onto the cone, one of dark chocolate and the other white with streaks of red fruit sauce, maybe cherry.

“ _Per la seconda, pistacchio y fior di latte._ ”

The man hands Will his cone, with one green scoop and one white scoop. “Grazie,” Will says, and lingers awkwardly until Hannibal takes his hand and leads him to a table in the corner furthest from the window.

Will licks his gelato and avoids Hannibal's eyes. When the silence draws on too long he says, “What, uh, what is the white one?”

“Sweet Cream,” Hannibal says. “You looked like you needed two scoops.”

Will smiles in spite of himself. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I did. Thanks.”

Hannibal still hasn't let go of his hand. They're clasped together on the table, in plain view, and Will catches himself wondering if passers-by think they're a gay couple. It's absurd, literally the least of Will's problems, and yet he can't seem to banish the thought.

Are they a gay couple? Is Will gay?

He doesn't even know how to begin answering that question. Whatever he is, or was, has been completely destroyed by circumstances outside of his control, and he and Hannibal are only trying to rebuild from the wreckage.

But still—

“Is this a date?” Will blurts out.

It's very difficult to catch Hannibal off guard, but his eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. Of course, it only takes him a second to school his expression. “Do you want it to be a date?” He asks.

Will takes a bite of his gelato to give himself a moment to think. The cold hurts his teeth.

“Yes,” he decides.

“Then yes, it's a date.”

Will laughs. Once he starts he finds he can't stop. It builds in his chest, feeding on all that pent-up frustration and confusion and self-hatred, spreading like a forest fire until Hannibal is laughing too, until Will's hands tremble and his eyes water.

He squeezes Hannibal's hand tightly and leans in close, still breathless, but the humor has disappeared from his voice. His smile becomes a parapet.

“I've killed six people,” he says, still smiling, laughter still in his throat. He speaks quickly under his breath, because he has to get everything out at once before it devours him from the inside.  
“I ate at least four of them, probably five, and at first I told myself that he was making me do it—like, that I was killing them to save my own life. But he didn't make me kill any of them, Hannibal. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Will,” Hannibal mutters, alarmed, but Will cuts him off.

“And the last two, the last two I didn't just kill,” he says. He laughs again, hysterically; he can't help himself.

“I tortured them,” he says. “There was this man, Alfred Baker, and I scooped his eyes out with a watermelon baller and fucking _ate_ them. And I liked it, Hannibal, I keep searching inside myself for some kind of remorse, but no matter how hard I fucking try I just can't make myself regret it. I mean, I feel guilty about killing my dogs and burning down my house, but when I remember torturing these fucking innocent people, all I can manage is, I don't know.” He frowns. “This twisted sort of satisfaction, that they're dead and I'm not. And the last one, oh my god, I don't remember all of it but I think I—”

He stops, suddenly remembering where they are. He looks up and is relieved to see that the cashier isn't paying attention to them; he's humming to himself and refilling a tub of gelato.

Hannibal, though. Hannibal is riveted, attuned to Will like a hunting dog honing in on a scent. Will can't tell what he's feeling, be it horror or disgust or even fear, but he can tell that he has every ounce of Hannibal's attention. It's intoxicating.

“Fuck,” Will says. “Oh, fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

“You did,” Hannibal says.

Will doesn't try to deny it. He tries to pull his hand away but Hannibal won't let him—and he is much, much stronger than Will.

“Are you going to turn me in?” He asks. A tingling numbness is spreading outward from his chest, usurping his natural fight-or-flight mechanism and replacing it with terrible, deathly calm.

“No,” says Hannibal. “We are going to finish our gelato, and then we will visit a friend of mine in Il Tornabuoni.”

“What?” Will asks. “Why?”

Hannibal finally releases his hand, dabbing chocolate from his lips with a napkin. “Because he owes me a favor, and I need private box seats at the opera tonight.”

What the fuck is he on about? Will admits he was the Ripper's protege, admits that doesn't even regret what he did, and Hannibal wants to—what? Wine and dine him? Finger him at the opera? He doesn't know what he's supposed to be feeling, but he's angry. He's furious. He wants to strangle Hannibal, and not for the first time. Not even for the first time today.

“Don't you—” he searches for words to express the baffling multitude of accusations and unanswered questions swirling around his head, and all he can come up with is, “Don't you  _care?_ ”

“Of course I care,” Hannibal says, eyebrows drawing up and together. He strokes the side of Will's hand with his thumb. “Nothing is more important to me than your continued happiness and wellbeing.”

“But—but the things that make me  _happy_ —”

“Could never stop me from loving you, Will.”

Will stares, his mind blanking. Several times he opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again. The top scoop of his gelato, the white one, slides off his cone and onto the table.

“Oh dear,” says Hannibal. “Here, let me clean that up for you.”

Will can only sit dumbfounded as Hannibal gathers a handful of napkins and wipes the table clean.  


For all the atrocities he has witnessed, endured, and committed, nothing has ever shocked him more than the idea that Hannibal might  _love_  him. Will long ago accepted that his various neuroses, and indeed, his personality in general, completely preclude the very idea of romantic love. He's spent years believing himself to be a lost cause.

This is some kind of cruel joke. Hannibal is manipulating him, playing him for a fool. That's the only explanation. The thought is enough to draw him out of his shell shock.

“That's a terrible thing to say, Hannibal.”

Hannibal smiles gently. “It is terrible for me to tell you that I love you?”

“Terrible to lie about it,” Will insists.

Hannibal shakes his head as he sits back down at the table. “You know I would never lie about something as serious as love.”

But Will doesn't know. In fact, that seems like exactly the kind of thing Hannibal would do, just to see his reaction. And Will is a monster, yes; he knows he deserves this and more, but that doesn't stop it from stinging.

“Take me to the train station,” he says. “I want to go home.”

“Now Will, there's no need to be obstinate. Dottore Rosato's house is only about a ten minute walk from here, and the city is better appreciated on foot.”

Will opens his mouth to protest, but Hannibal has this infuriating air of authority with which he can dominate any conversation, and so he doesn't get the chance.

“On the way we will pass through the Loggia dei Lanzi in Piazza della Signoria, and you can see David. Of course, it's only a cast of David—the real statue was moved to the Accademia Gallery in 1873—but it is quite an accurate replica. In my youth I would often practice figure drawing in the statue garden. It houses several masterpieces.”

Hannibal rambles on without him, and Will doesn't have any choice but to follow him out the door and back to the piazza. Even if he could get a word in, he has no idea what he would say. He confessed to murder, and in return Hannibal confessed his “love.” Where do they go from here?

So he tamps down the anger and confusion, though it feels like a railroad spike being driven through his heart, and pretends that he is okay. He's spent a lot of his life pretending. He can't say it's served him well thus far, but at least he's alive. That has to count for something.

~

His dreams, when he can dream—when he can sleep—are all the same. Hannibal at his feet, bleeding to death. Will kicks him in the face until his jaw caves in, until his teeth shatter and fall like marbles to the floor, until his lovely high cheekbones are protruding in fragments from his skin. He coughs up blood and pieces of tongue, and he can no longer form words but continues to beg. Never for mercy, never for Will to  _stop._

Will kicks him until he's leaking gray matter all over the polished hardwood floors. And then, because this is Will's dream and he can do what he wants, Hannibal is whole once more.

“Again,” he snarls, eyes dark, more animal than man. “Does killing me make you feel righteous?”  
Will stomps on his face again.

The strange thing is, he doesn't wake up angry. He wakes up lonely, his stomach growling and his body aching, desperately hoping that today Hannibal will take him out of this cell, even if it is only to torture him.

He seems to be getting his wish more and more lately. Since Alfred Baker, he sees Hannibal more days than not. He is cruel and kind in nearly equal measure, in unpredictable patterns, but the line between the two is beginning to blur. Will only wants to be useful, only wants to be  _needed_ —and whether Hannibal is kissing him or cutting him, he is always using Will's body to make himself happy. That makes Will happy.

The cell is pitch black and his headphones are silent. It must still be his allotted sleeping period. He stands up, stretches as best he can. He is underfed but getting healthier, eating more, moving more. Hannibal keeps him malnourished to keep him from resisting, but luckily for Will, he gets some kind of sexual or psychological gratification from forcing him to partake in cannibalism, and so Will is allowed as much human meat as he wants. It's not a balanced diet, but it is keeping him alive. 

They don't pretend anymore—no talk of lamb, or steak, or veal. Hannibal even serves him body parts that still look like body parts, and Will eats gratefully and without question. Sometimes he's allowed to carve. Hannibal trusts him with the knife, because Will no longer waits for a moment of weakness in which to use it. He doesn't want to kill Hannibal anymore; or rather, he wants to  _kill_  Hannibal, wants to taste his raw flesh and watch the light fade from his eyes, but he doesn't want Hannibal  _dead._ Will is no longer equipped to navigate reality without his guidance. The mere thought of it sets his teeth on edge.

He has taught lessons on Stockholm Syndrome, has read textbooks, has graded papers on the subject, and it is revoltingly obvious that this is not Stockholm Syndrome. His feelings for Hannibal are a different beast entirely. Maybe the affection began as a survival mechanism—but then again, he lost the will to survive a long time ago. The more likely explanation is that he is simply evil. He is like Hannibal, has that same primal draw to destruction, and Hannibal recognized it in him long ago, nursed and nurtured it into the terrible demon it is today. They have always respected each other. Now they understand each other. Hannibal can't help himself any more than Will can help himself.

So Will forgives, and submits, and becomes the willing victim Hannibal wants him to be. He doesn't know how to do anything else.

He dozes off again, sitting up. He is usually woken by the light of the metronome, a fluorescent sunrise signaling the start of another day of brainwashing, discomfort, and lovesickness, but today the light comes from outside his cell. Hannibal stands at the door, the outline of a man who is so much more than a man, who has always been a god in his own eyes and has now acquired a disciple.

“Good morning,” he says. “Would you like some breakfast?”

Will smiles and stretches his legs. “Yes please.”

Hannibal feeds him eggs and sausage. It's been a long time since Will flung that knife at his head, and he is allowed to eat on his own again, though Hannibal still hand feeds him sometimes. Will loves it, loves the attention and the careful way Hannibal portions each bite, loves how happy it makes him to control Will's life on a microscopic level.

“I have business to attend to today,” Hannibal says, clearing the table. He always wears a lapel microphone so Will can hear him, because the headphones are, as far as Will can tell, a permanent fixture. “It’s very important, and I have half a mind to put you away so you cannot interrupt me.”

“I can be quiet,” Will says, looking up from under thick eyelashes. His face is gaunt but he is still beautiful; he hasn't seen a mirror in a long time but knows this because Hannibal tells him so.

“I'm sure you can,” Hannibal chuckles, “and that is a good thing, because I need your mouth for something else today. You're going to help me with my work.”

He thrills at the words, and can't help but kick his feet in excitement. Will knows not to ask questions, so he silently follows Hannibal to his study, always a few paces behind, because they are not equals. He doesn't want to be Hannibal's equal. That kind of responsibility is more trouble than it's worth.

“Kneel under the desk,” Hannibal says.

Will does. There’s barely enough room, but he's used to folding himself into small spaces, so it's only a mild inconvenience. He salivates as Hannibal sits and unbuttons his pants, just enough to slip his cock out. Will can smell him, the musky scent of his body and that cologne he only seems to wear when he's going to fuck Will, which has Will hard and dripping pre-come before he even gets a taste. Hannibal notices, because Will is naked. Will is always naked. He doesn't deserve privacy anymore.

He shifts forward in his chair, half-hard cock bobbing enticingly in front of Will's face, and lightly taps Will's erection with his shoe. Will exhales hard, eyes watering, so he does it again, a little harder. He whimpers, but doesn't move away.

“Do you want me to touch your cock?” Hannibal asks.

Will doesn't know the right answer to that question; he anxiously clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides.

“Answer me, Will,” says Hannibal. “Do you want me to touch your cock?”

“Y-yes?” Will says, already bracing himself.

He's not disappointed. Hannibal kicks him in the balls, not hard enough to cause any real damage, but hard enough to make him yelp. He wants so badly to shield himself with his hands, but he doesn't need any more broken fingers.

“Say thank you,” Hannibal says.

“Th–thank you Doctor Lecter,” Will slurs, head lolling to the side. Hannibal kicks him once more for good measure, just clipping the head of Will's cock, smearing pre-come on the toe of his shoe.  


Hannibal frowns. “These are Italian leather,” he says. “Stick out your tongue.”

Will sticks out his tongue. Hannibal forces his head down almost to the floor and uses Will's mouth to wipe his loafers clean.

“I think that's enough for now,” he says. “I'm going to fuck your throat, and I want you to keep your hands behind your back so I know you're not touching yourself."

He doesn't have to think at all; he crosses his arms behind his back and opens his mouth, licking his lips involuntarily. Hannibal winds his hair too hard around his fingers and uses it to jerk his head forward, forcing him to take the entire length in one painful gulp. He hasn't been force fed in awhile, so his deep throating skills aren't what they used to be, and he can't stop himself from gagging a little bit. Hannibal doesn't care. He pushes and pulls Will's head like he's inanimate, oblivious to his discomfort.

It's easy to be inanimate. His headspace is completely clear of everything but the physical sensations of being used, the weight and warmth of Hannibal's thick cock in his mouth. He doesn't have to do anything but passively allow this to happen to him. It's relaxing to be less than human—just a wet, warm hole, and one of many, so grateful that Hannibal chose him.

Thick spit gathers in the back of his throat to coat Hannibal's cock, a little more every time he gags, and Hannibal fucks him through it, even when Will's eyes begin to water and he desperately sucks air in through his nose. He isn’t allowed a moment of respite, not even when he’s sure he's going to vomit—but somehow he manages to keep it down, though his head is pounding and his ears are ringing from the sheer force of Hannibal's manipulations.

“Swallow,” Hannibal orders, voice low and gravelly.

Will tries; it takes a moment to gain control of that muscle group, and by the time he manages it Hannibal is already coming down his throat. He holds Will's face so tightly against his pelvis that Will can't breathe at all, and he doesn't let up, grinding into his throat even after the bulk of his orgasm has passed.

He exhales but can't inhale again; when he tries he only creates suction between his nose and Hannibal's skin. His chest aches and spasms, so empty, but he fights the instinct to struggle.

What it would be like to die this way, suffocating on Hannibal's cock? Could he stay pliant and accept his fate, or would he buck and pull involuntarily, starving for oxygen? It wouldn't matter because he knows Hannibal is strong enough to hold him here through his death throes. Could he keep himself from biting down, or would cannibalism be his final act? Hannibal might not appreciate that, but it would certainly be fitting.

He's almost disappointed when Hannibal releases him. The first breath burns, as does the second. Hannibal pulls out, but not completely. He’s just giving Will a little air. Even soft he fills Will's throat.

“Swallow,” he says again, “and keep swallowing. Don't you dare pull off.”

That's all the warning he gets before he tastes something much more acrid than come, trickling down his throat in hot, irregular bursts. It's unexpected, triggers an uncomfortable spike of adrenaline. Hannibal is pissing in his mouth. Will chokes but tries to stay on top of the flow.

Inevitably, though, his mouth fills up and he has to taste it. He's pretty sure he's never tasted piss before, unless Hannibal's cooking includes more secret ingredients than he lets on. It's heavily diluted but still salty and unpleasant.

Surprisingly pleasant is the shiver of humiliation that follows, making his face hot and his fists clench and his already throbbing cock painfully hard.

Denying himself feels almost as good as touching himself would. It's the knowledge that he can't, even if he wants to. More than that, it's the unspoken threat of Hannibal's hand cupping the back of his skull; it's the context and the circumstantial evidence which suggest that if he disobeys, Hannibal is perfectly capable, willing, and motivated to hurt him. The thought only makes Will harder.

He always underestimates how far Hannibal will push him in order to prove a point. He frequently catches himself thinking  _no, he can't, he wouldn't,_  only to find that, yes, Hannibal can and will. At first he thought the line was drawn before permanent damage, and while that was soon disproven, he didn't think Hannibal would break any bones. Giving Hannibal the benefit of the doubt has earned Will six broken fingers so far, and he doesn't have high hopes for the remaining four.

Despite recognizing the pattern, he still expects, perhaps reasonably, that Hannibal will pull out once he's emptied himself into Will's stomach—but he doesn't. One firm hand keeps Will's face buried in his crotch.

The study is quiet. Loud seconds tick by on the grandfather clock. Will counts them, growing more nervous with each passing minute, until finally, four hundred and eighteen ticks later, he can't stop himself from pulling away.

Hannibal tsks and tightens his grip in Will's hair, forcing him back down. “Now now,” he says, “don't be impolite. You were eager to help me with my work earlier.”

Will mumbles something incomprehensible around the soft flesh stretching his throat. He's salivating so much that it's begun to drip down his chin, no matter how frequently he swallows.

“I need both of my hands, now, so I have to let you go,” says Hannibal. “I expect you to stay exactly where you are.”

At last he releases the pressure on Will's head, allowing him to breath a little more easily. Will forces himself to remain still, to keep his throat slack and his breakfast in his stomach, even though Hannibal's cock tickles his uvula every time he tries to breathe. It's difficult to control his gag reflex, but he has a lot more practice than most. He makes anxious, questioning sounds high in his throat.

“Shh,” says Hannibal, stroking his hair. “Relax. Here is what we are going to do.”

Hannibal is the only person who can tell him to relax without having the opposite effect: a phenomenon, carefully manufactured and reinforced, which never fails to make Will angry.

“I know you don't like being alone, Will, but I can't have you wandering around my office. No telling what kind of trouble you could get yourself in to. So you'll stay here and keep my cock warm while I finish up a bit of research, and we can break for lunch in a few hours. Does that sound acceptable?”

Will know damn well that there is only one correct answer to that question, so he mumbles his agreement, even though he's not too wild about the prospect of kneeling on the hard floor for three or four more hours.

“Excellent,” says Hannibal. “Remember, hands behind your back. Don't make me regret this.”

It may not be comfortable, but it's more comfortable than spending the day in his cell. Just the warmth of Hannibal's body, the unmistakable awareness that he is sharing a space with another conscious human being, stokes the fire of his survival instinct. His will to live is a limited resource these days, but it flows more freely in Hannibal's company.

He waits for further explanation, but the conversation is apparently over. It's as if Hannibal has switched him to idle—he ignores Will so thoroughly that he manages to temporarily forget his own existence, adrift in a sleep-deprived haze of boredom.

The clock ticks. He doesn't bother counting. He kneels under the desk with Hannibal's cock stuffed all the way down his throat for something like forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, before anything interesting happens: without warning, without really acknowledging the act at all, Hannibal pisses in his mouth again. Will tenses, fights the urge to gag, and forces himself to swallow. He can still hear the scratch of the pen above him. Hannibal continues working as if this is just the polite way to do things, and warrants no comment. 

Will suckles him clean, careful to stay far away from 'distracting' territory, because he doesn't want to be banished to his cage. Urinal duty is, surprisingly, preferable. That's quite indicative of just how far Will has fallen, that he thinks he might learn to enjoy swallowing piss, but he doesn't give it too much thought. He's an object. He doesn't give anything too much thought.

He sleeps a little bit, just a few of those thirty-second bouts of unconsciousness which happen lately no matter what he's doing. Hannibal keeps him tired for the same reason he keeps him hungry: it makes him easier to control. Will has read, and confirmed from experience, that someone who has been awake for twenty-four hours is as mentally impaired as someone with blood-alcohol content of .1%. He counts himself lucky that he doesn't need his higher mental functions on a daily basis, except perhaps to navigate Hannibal's complex, metaphorical style of talk therapy. He sometimes gets the feeling that he’s dumbing it down, but can't muster the energy to be offended.

His knees ache. He has little body fat left for cushioning. He tries to ignore it. They’re in this for the long haul, so he nuzzles into Hannibal's crotch until he finds a comfortable position for his head. He closes his eyes and allows all conscious thought to trickle from his mind like water from a cracked basin.

~

“It's a bit smaller than I imagined,” says Will.

“David is more than twice actual size,” Hannibal says, frowning—and then his creased brow softens and he clasps his hands behind his back. He shoots Will a knowing smile. “But of course, you're referring to his genitals.”

Will crosses his arms and looks down and away. He wishes he were less transparent, or that Hannibal wasn't so good at reading him.

“It's alright, Will,” Hannibal chuckles, “your fixation on phallic imagery is not surprising given the circumstances. I imagine you're quite preoccupied deciphering your sexuality.”

“That's not—” Will stutters, “I'm not—”

“Historically, large genitals were thought to indicate excessive lust. Hardly appropriate for an Italian noble.” Hannibal gazes at the statue for a moment before adding, “There is no need to be self-conscious because you're smaller than average, you know. Penis size has no bearing on sexual ability, and I daresay you out measure David, even in 2:1 scale.”

Will's clenches his teeth. Hannibal is just trying to get a rise out of him, and he's not going to give him the satisfaction. 

“Haven't seen a David without a Goliath before,” he says just to change the subject.

Hannibal's lips twitch. “The statue depicts David in a moment of contemplation immediately preceding battle. He has decided to engage Goliath, but hasn't yet landed the first blow. Notice the tension in his neck and brow.”

“Is that fear?” Will asks. “Or remorse?”

“That's for the viewer to decide,” he says. “We each bring personal context to the interpretation; that is what makes visual art such a universal language. You are searching your own soul for remorse. It is only natural that you would find its echoes outside yourself.”

Will frowns. “You don't have to psychoanalyze everything I say, you know. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“My apologies,” says Hannibal. “Though you must admit, you're preoccupied with David's cigar.”

“Right, that's enough fine art for one day,” Will says, taking Hannibal's hand. He tugs him away from the statue, toward the far side of the piazza. Hannibal follows, smiling to himself.

The Tornabuoni neighborhood is located south of the Duomo and far outside of Will's comfort zone. It's packed with designer outlets whose very presence makes him feel unwelcome. He's never seen a Prada store in real life before.

Dottore Rosato lives on the water, a few blocks from the famous Ponte Vecchio bridge, in an ornate stucco building with barred windows which Will at first assumes is an apartment complex.

Hannibal rings the doorbell. “ _Dottore Lecter e un compagno qui per visitare Dottore Rosato,_ ” he says into the intercom. There is a pause, and then the microphone crackles to life.

“ _Che sorpresa piacevole!_ ” Exclaims the man on the other end. “Please, come in.”

The latch clicks, and Hannibal pushes open the white double doors, revealing an impressive foyer leading to a curved marble staircase. He hesitates before following Hannibal inside, taken aback by the grandeur, and wonders exactly what type of Doctor this Signor Rosato is. He has only a moment to appreciate the foyer, which houses several dramatic paintings and looks for all the world like a private gallery, before a short, bearded man descends the stairs to greet them.

“Piero,” Hannibal smiles, stepping forward to shake his hand. His words echo around the hall, affording them an undeserved air of grandiosity. “It has been entirely too long.”

As soon as Piero opens his mouth, Will knows he's a surgeon. He's not sure exactly what tips him off, but he knows better than most that certain personality types are attracted to certain professions, and he sees in Piero and Hannibal kindred spirits. The revelation strikes him unbidden, and Will doesn't like its implications.

“I was so disappointed when I heard your trip would be delayed. I've been eagerly awaiting your arrival since I sent the plane, oh, must have been three weeks ago?” His voice is loud and melodic with a pronounced Italian accent to match the broad cut of his navy blue dinner jacket.

“My sincerest apologies,” Hannibal says, “and thank you again for the flight. First class is comfortable, but it's not every day I get to travel by private jet. Of course I had every intention of visiting as soon as I left the airport, but my travel companion was seriously ill. I left a message with your secretary. Perhaps it never made it to your desk.”

“I can't say that it did,” says Piero with a sigh. “But my new secretary has proven herself less than competent. It is so difficult to find hired help with both talent and discretion, don't you think?”

Hannibal nods gravely. “I've been fielding my own calls since I lost my last secretary.”

“Always self-sufficient, weren't you?” Piero says, clapping Hannibal on the back. His dark brown eyes flicker to Will, as if noticing him for the first time. “I don't believe I've met your companion,” he says to Hannibal. It's telling that he won't address Will directly until Hannibal has introduced him. Overly concerned with social status, perhaps to compensate for insecurity about his place in the pecking order.

“How rude of me,” says Hannibal. “I’d like to present my patient, Will Graham. Will, Doctor Piero Rosato, renowned plastic surgeon.”

Patient.

“Nice to meet you,” Will says, extending his hand automatically. He's thankful for the reflex, because otherwise he'd be frozen in disbelief. It is an enormous breach of confidentiality for Hannibal to introduce Will as his patient. Hannibal must know that. Piero certainly does.

“Likewise,” he says, speaking to Will but still looking at Hannibal. “So, I take it your precious cargo arrived in one piece?”

Hannibal smiles, flashing his pointed white incisors. “More or less.”

Piero gives Will a quick once-over, and then turns his attention back to Hannibal. “Shall we retire to the study?” He asks. “I have a vintage Cabernet I've been saving for the occasion.”

“It would be my pleasure,” says Hannibal, resting a possessive hand on the small of Will's back. The touch makes him shiver, but he allows Hannibal to guide him up the stairs, ignoring the implacable atmosphere of foreboding.

The study is much darker than the foyer, decorated in rich burgundy and oak, with heavy velvet curtains drawn over the windows. It reminds him of a Rococo painting—perhaps the least Italian space he's seen today, which makes the large Caravaggio original which dominates the room rather ironic.

Hannibal smiles as soon as he sees it, well-lit and hanging above the wide oak desk. “It's even more beautiful in person,” he says.

“I couldn't have won the auction without your help. Words cannot express my gratitude,” says Piero, placing a serving tray of glasses on the desk, “though wine might. A glass for Mr. Graham?”

“Please,” says Hannibal.

Will scowls as Piero turns away to gather two more chairs around the table. It's irritating to be discussed as though he's not in the room, and even more irritating to watch Hannibal play along. He could really use that drink.

“Business is good, I take it,” Hannibal says, passing a glass of wine to Will without looking at him.

“Same as always,” says Piero. “Until science can reverse aging, there will always be plenty of rich old women looking to feel young again. Although, I have diversified since we last saw each other—that conference in Vienna, must have been, what, ten years ago now? Before you know it I'll be giving you a face lift.”

Hannibal smiles politely. He isn't sure if Piero can tell or not, but it's clear to Will that Hannibal would much sooner cut off his own face than entrust it to him.

“Am I typical of your newly diversified clientele?” He asks.

Piero chuckles heartily as he finishes his first glass of wine. Will hasn't even started his. “Not exactly,” he says. “I refer to the recent boom in sex reassignment surgery. Ever since the  _Servizio Sanitario Nazionale_  ruled it medically necessary, everybody wants their equipment rearranged. But clients are clients, and my cunts can fool anyone.”

He seems to be expecting them to laugh, but Hannibal only raises his eyebrows and takes a long sip of wine. Will wonders why Piero hasn't noticed that Hannibal finds his company increasingly distasteful.

“Hannibal is lecturing at the University of the Arts,” Will interjects, a heavy-handed attempt to salvage the conversation.

Piero squints at him for a second before addressing Hannibal. “Quite the renaissance man,” he says. “Painting?”

“Art in a psychiatric context,” says Hannibal. “You could say I too have diversified.”

Will stops paying attention at this point, because it's clear that neither of them intend to include him in the discussion. He busies himself studying the painting above the desk. Now that he knows it's Caravaggio, he can spot the tells, especially in the masterful interplay of light and dark.

He finishes his wine long before Piero decides to finally speak to him, and by that time the doctor must be on his third or fourth glass. He grows more boisterous the more he drinks.

“Will Graham,” he says, rolling the name around his mouth like a cherry tomato. “I read all about the house fire. Can't say I ever expected to meet you in person.”

Will frowns. “You read about the fire?”

“Of course,” Piero laughs. “Clever, Mr. Graham, very clever, especially the bit with the teeth. That takes some dedication. You're reformed now, I'm guessing? Must have taken some radical therapy, but if anybody can do it, Hannibal Lecter can, eh?”

“Reformed…?” Will repeats.

“Don't worry,” Piero says, and mimes zipping his mouth closed. “Your secret's safe with me. But I have to ask—with apologies to your therapist—I  _have_  to ask…what was it like?”

“What was what like?” He asks carefully.

“Don't play coy,” says Piero. “You know.  _Killing_  them.”

Will’s blood runs cold. Before he has the chance to respond, Hannibal stands and extends his hand to Piero. “Forgive me, but this is a long and complicated story,” he says, “and I'm afraid we do not have the time to get into it just yet, as I have a lecture scheduled in the next hour. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner this evening, somewhere private.”

With somewhat diminished coordination, Piero stands and shakes Hannibal's hand. “Of course, of course,” he says. “You simply must tell me all the gory details—oh, but I'm afraid I already have plans this evening. _Lucia Di Lammermoor_ is premiering at Opera di Firenze tonight, and as you know, I rent a private box.”

“Some other time, then,” Hannibal says, to Piero's clear disappointment. He turns toward the door, pauses. “Unless you have room to spare in that box?”

Piero's eyes widen. “Si, si of  _course!_  Always room to spare for an old friend. Curtains at eight, so I'll see you no later than seven thirty.”

“We'll be there,” says Hannibal.

They're halfway across the room when Piero says, “One more thing.”

“Yes?” Hannibal asks, expertly masking his annoyance.

“Red or white wine?”

Maybe Will's eyes are playing tricks on him, but he swears Hannibal sniffs the air. “I think rosé,” he says. “Don't you?”

~

“That was sneaky,” Will says. He peers past the jewelry and leather stores on the bridge, hoping to get a glance at the water, but the shops are too close together. “I don't understand why you even want to go tonight. It's obvious you don't like him.”

“Only obvious to you,” Hannibal says serenely. “You forget that not everybody shares your gift.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But still. What was all that about the fire and killing people? What exactly have you told him?”

“The details will become apparent in time,” says Hannibal. “Come now, we only have a few hours to get you a fitted suit.”

“I'm already wearing a suit,” Will says, grimacing.

“You're wearing dress pants and a dinner jacket,” says Hannibal. “It's an important distinction.”

Will doesn't want Hannibal buying him anything. It makes him uncomfortable. He's already in too deep. Hannibal is digging his grave for him, and every courtesy is another shovel full of dirt.

“I'd rather wear this,” he says, though he knows it's futile.

“Nonsense,” says Hannibal. “Now, since this is a rush job our options are limited, but do you have a preference for designer?”

Will scoffs. “It's all the same to me.”

“In that case, we'll visit my tailor. His shop is only a few blocks from here.”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “You don't have to buy something new, though. We could go home and change.” He's still thinking about Piero, and the look in his eye as he said those words—what was it like, you know,  _killing_  them? He has a lot of questions, but Hannibal discretely changes the subject every time he tries to bring them up, so he'll just have to wait until he's ready to talk.

“Social conventions dictate that we refuse expensive presents once before accepting them,” Hannibal says, “but let's save time and establish now that I won't offer you gifts I'm not prepared to give. It will be easier for both of us if you accept them with courtesy.”

Will bows his head. “Thank you, Doctor Lecter,” he says, because Hannibal is right. It's easier to just go with it.

~

The most valuable gift Hannibal has given him to date arrives packaged in a familiar plexiglass box. It looks so unassuming, sitting in the center of Hannibal's nearly empty sub-basement. Silent, still, measuring less than a meter in every direction, nothing about its exterior suggests that it's occupied.

Will is frozen at the foot of the stairs. Even the knowledge that it's housing a new prisoner isn't enough to quell the rising panic in his throat.

Hannibal places a hand on his shoulder, making him flinch. “Relax,” he says. “I promise that as long as you continue to cooperate, you will never have to see the inside of that container again.”  


He manages a short, jerky nod, and doesn't mention how little Hannibal's promises are worth to him.

“Come now,” he says, pulling a keyring from his pocket. “Don't you want to open your present?”

It takes several tries for Will to convince his trembling hands to open the padlocks. Part of him is still sure that the box is empty, that Hannibal is going to stuff him inside as soon as he gets it open. He's almost surprised when he cracks open the case to reveal pale, fear-damp flesh. Suffering has an intensely human smell, and it assaults him as he slides open the side panel.

“Who is this?” He asks quietly.

“Call him William,” Hannibal says.

The body twitches toward that first whiff of fresh air. Will tastes his panic. He makes no move to stop him as he squirms desperately out of the box, only to collapse gasping and prostrate on the cold concrete floor.

Here it is, Will thinks. Here is the elusive endgame, stretched out naked before him, sobbing with a mixture of terror and relief so familiar that Will could patent it. Hannibal kicks the shapeless body hard in the ribcage to roll it over.

That face—his brain refuses to process what he's seeing.

“What is this,” Will says flatly. “Some kind of joke?”

“He's from Canada,” Hannibal says, as if that's any explanation. “It took a long time to locate a target with such striking resemblance. Ignore the accent and you could be twins.”

He's right. The unfortunate man is nearly identical, right down to the shape of his stubble. He's pale, a little more muscular than Will only because he hasn't been starved as long. The biggest difference is that his dark, curly hair is only long on top. The sides are buzzed in a clean undercut. He looks like Will might have looked five years ago, had his life gone according to plan.

He turns to Hannibal, silently begging him to lift the enormous burden of this poor man's life off his shoulders, but Hannibal won't have it. “He's yours,” he says.

Will shakes his head. He doesn't want to own another human being.

“It's rude to refuse a gift,” Hannibal warns, “especially after all the trouble I went through softening him up for you.”

He opens and shuts his mouth a few times before muttering the most insincere “thank you” he's ever had to say. He clears his throat. “How long has he been here?”

“Three weeks in the box,” says Hannibal.

The prisoner's horrified gaze flickers around the room in a futile search for escape. They lock eyes. The man's heart bursts and spills into him, a frothy mixture of blood and fear and longing. It makes him sick.

“What do you want me to do with him?”

Hannibal smiles. “Everything you don't want me to do to you.”

“This is a test,” Will says.

Hannibal doesn't deny it. “I trust you understand by now that mercy will not impress me.”

Will nods. He understands perfectly. In fact, the pieces are all falling into place. Will knows what he's done, what was done to him, and how to smudge out that razor-thin line between the two.

“We can start whenever you like.”

“Do you think—could I have a few minutes alone with him, first?”

Hannibal cocks his head. “I'm trusting you to cooperate.”

Will nods. “It's me or him. I am crystal clear on that point.”

“Good,” says Hannibal. “In that case, I'll give you two some privacy. Don't start without me.”

“I won't,” says Will, grimacing. He stands motionless as Hannibal ascends the stairs, and waits until he hears the kitchen door slam to crouch down and offer his hand to the trembling figure on the ground. The man flinches away.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Will lies. “I just want to help you sit up. Do you want some water?”  
He blinks, wide-eyed. Then he nods and takes his hand, allowing Will to hoist him into a sitting position. 

“Okay,” says Will. “Don't move; I'm just going to the sink.” He searches the shelf for a cup, all the while tracking the man’s position in space—he knows from experience that he might try to hurt himself, and if he does, Will is going to take the blame. Eventually he finds a graduated measuring cup, which he fills at the tap and passes to 'William.'

The man drinks like he's never tasted water before. Will refills the cup twice before he's satisfied. At last he sets it on the ground, swallows, trying to find his voice. “Merci,” he croaks.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Will repeats. “What's your name?”

He furrows his brow. It's the same face Will makes when he's confused. “ _Parlez-vous français?_ ”

“Shit,” Will mutters to himself. He wonders if the language barrier was intentional or just a convenient coincidence. He racks his brain for any remnant of his high school French class.

“ _Un peu,_ ” he says—a little. “Uh,  _comment tu t'appelles?_ ”

“Guillaume.”

Will frowns. He refuses to believe that's true—it's the literal French translation of William. Hannibal must have taught him that, but he doesn't have the vocabulary to ask how or why, or if he even remembers his real name.

“ _Nous sommes jumeaux,_ ” Guillaume laments. Sensing Will's confusion, he points at his own face, makes a circular motion with his hand, and then points to Will's.  _We are the same._  If only he knew—they're barely the same species.

Slowly, so as not startle him, Will lowers himself to the floor and takes one of Guillaume's hands between his own. He looks deep into his double's eyes and tries to fathom how he will tell this man that he is going to die today.

“Do you speak any English?” He asks.

“English,” says Guillaume. His voice is thin and shaky. He pulls his hand away. “I know to say, I am hungry?”

“I don't have any food,” says Will. He can't tell from the blank stare he receives whether or not the man understands. They really don't have time for this; Hannibal will start to get suspicious soon. All he can do is try his best. “Listen,” he says. “I have something important to tell you.”

“ _Important?_ ” The man repeats in french.

“ _Oui,_ ” says Will. “It's bad— _mal_ —but you have to listen. The man who kidnapped you kidnapped me too. He's going to make me kill you.”

Guillaume stares at him, uncomprehending. “What means kill?”

“Fuck,” Will mutters. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. He doesn't want to do this, hates that his empathy forces him to try. “ _Vite,_ ” he says—soon, quickly—“ _vous—_ ” and he points to Guillaume—“ _mort._ ” He draws his finger across his throat and hopes that the gesture for death is universal.

He shrinks away, scrambling backwards to press his shoulder against the side of the box. “ _Mort? Pourquoi tu fais ça? Je ne veux pas mourir!_ ” He shrieks.

“I don't know what that  _means,_ ” Will all but sobs. “Fucking,  _oui, oui, mourir_ ; let me  _help_  you!”

The man blinks several times, silent tears welling up in his eyes.

“No,” Will groans, “don't cry, fuck, okay.” He takes a deep breath. He had a plan to make this a little easier, but he's not sure it will transcend the language barrier. He just wants to give up and get it over with.

But when he looks at this man it is impossible not to see himself. That's the whole point. Hannibal has been chipping away at his empathy, yes, but he wanted to make damn sure Will could feel this one. If there's anything he can do, anything at all, he has to try.

“I can make it easier,” he says. “ _Moins mal._  I won't lie to you; you're going to get hurt no matter what happens. When you can't stand it anymore, and only then, I want you to say 'mercy,' understand?”

The man looks at him with wide, worried eyes and shakes his head 'no.'

Will tries again. “When you want to die,” he says. As hard as he tries to keep his voice even, it still cracks a little on the last word. “That is,  _vous désirez morir_ —say 'mercy.' I'll try to end it.”

If Guillaume understands him, he doesn't get the chance to say so. They both hear Hannibal's first footfall on the steps at the same time; Will spins around and Guillaume scrambles backward, whispering to himself. “ _Notre Père, qui es aux cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifié. Que ton règne vienne, que ta volonté soit faite sur la terre comme au ciel—_ ”

The devil himself, hands clasped confidently behind his back. 

“What's he saying?” Will demands.

Hannibal smiles and steps forward. Will takes an involuntary step back. “ _Notre Pére,_ ” he says. “The Lord's Prayer. Did you tell him you were going to kill him, or is he simply a devout Catholic?”

“I tried,” Will says. No use lying. “I don't think he understood me.”

“A pity,” says Hannibal. “My French is a bit rusty, but I will translate for you if you like.”

Will shrugs. He doesn't think that hearing Guillaume beg for his life in English will make this any easier.

“Listen,” he says. “I'm not going to disrespect you by asking this more than once, so please think about it before you answer.” 

It takes every ounce of his resolve to maintain eye contact. Like the endless void of space, the horror behind Hannibal's eyes is an absence rather than a presence. 

“I know this is a test. I understand the symbolic suicide thing, and I appreciate the effort that went into planning this. I know you want me to…to torture him. But if you care about me at all, you'll at least consider a compromise.”

Hannibal's stiff demeanor doesn't indicate compassion, but he says, “I'm listening.”

“Okay,” says Will. “You told me once that all of this was about pushing the limits of my endurance. I won't lie, that is evil, but it makes sense in a twisted, psychopathic sort of way.”

Hannibal nods, humoring him.

His voice is a little steadier as he continues. “The thing is, you've already pushed past those limits. I've killed and tortured for you before; I've cooked and eaten with you, so what taboo is left?”

“Are you referring to sexual taboos?”

“I'm referring to whatever you want,” Will says. He wishes he had pants on, because it's hard even to take himself seriously when he's naked, and it would be nice to hide his trembling hands in his pockets. But he can't, so he doesn't, and it doesn't matter. Hannibal can smell his fear anyway. He's keenly interested.

“I will do literally anything you want to him...as long as it's post mortem,” he says. “Please, Doctor Lecter, I am begging you—please let me kill him humanely.”

Hannibal's reaction is impossible to gauge. He's so good at tempering his emotions that Will often suspects he has none. “You realize that I could decline your compromise and then force you to desecrate his corpse anyway.”

Will flinches at the word 'desecrate.' “You could,” he says, “but you can blackmail me into anything. That's not the point. Wouldn't it be more fun if I did it voluntarily?” He's putting a lot of faith in Hannibal's hedonism, but to be fair, it's usually a safe bet. 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal says. “You are, however, missing a crucial point. What I want is to see your creativity in action. So I propose an amendment: you can have your fun with the body, and you can kill him quickly, but I am not interested in 'humane.' You should know by now that murder is an art form—I want to witness your talent, Will. Show me your best execution.”

Will bites his lower lip. “It can be quick?”

“Quick but brutal,” says Hannibal. “And interesting. No stabbing, no decapitation. If you don't subject him to your creativity, I will subject you to mine.” He glances to Will's bare feet and then back to his face. “I see that standing has become less painful.”

“I get it,” Will says. He knows there's no tricking Hannibal, isn't stupid enough to try. He looks to Guillaume cowering on the floor, silently watching them decide his fate, and tries to imagine what his corpse will look like. That's up to Will, he supposes.

Fuck, he doesn't want to go through with this. He's not even sure that he can. The compromise is less than ideal, and even if he can manage the murder, he can't even make himself think about what will happen afterwards, so he has no idea how he's going to actually…do it.

But Will has been tortured; he knows what it's like. This man is an innocent. It would be unspeakably selfish to inflict such pain upon Guillaume just to spare himself, especially because Will deserves whatever he has coming to him. This man may share his face, but that doesn't make him responsible for any part of his guilt, no matter how much he'd like to believe otherwise.

“Well?” Hannibal prompts.

Will lifts his chin. “I'll do it,” he says, even though he's not sure he has the resolve to keep his word.

Hannibal smiles, because he wins either way. “Excellent,” he says. “In that case, I'll give you a few moments to examine my equipment and compose your first draft. Anything you need, just let me know.”

He needs about five fingers of strong whisky, but he turns to the shelf without another word. He's been playing this game long enough to know the rules. He won his concession, but at a price—anything less than perfection will be severely punished.

Guillaume, who up until this point has remained paralyzed in fear, suddenly lunges for the door.  
He doesn't make it two steps before Hannibal snags an arm around his waist and hoists him off the ground, spins him around, and slams him into the wall hard enough to force the air from his lungs. He gasps, pinned, as Hannibal turns casually to Will.

“How would you like him restrained?” He asks. “Sitting? Standing?”

Will debates for a moment. “Can you lie him down?” That will be less strenuous, he knows from experience.

“Certainly,” says Hannibal. “I'll strap him to the chair for you.”

“ _Aidez-moi!_ ” Guillaume shouts, twisting weakly in his grip. “ _Non!_  Help me! Will Graham!”

He turns away, covers his mouth with his hand, and squeezes his eyes shut. Dissociate. Block it out. So Hannibal mentioned his name—so what? Hannibal has probably told him a lot. It doesn't change anything.

“Prop his head up,” Will says without inflection. “Actually, go ahead and dress him for neurosurgery. It can be crude. I don't care about sterility; just do what it takes to keep him alive during the...procedure.”

“Of course,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over Guillaume's desperate cries. “Anything else?”

“A mirror, if you can manage it. So he can see the back of his head.”

Hannibal wrangles his squirming prisoner into a chokehold, putting an abrupt end to his begging. “I have just the thing,” he says, and drags Guillaume to the door.

Will turns back to the shelf. He begins to unscrew the bit on Hannibal's heavy black power drill.

~

The collar of Will's new white dress shirt stands so high and stiff that it forces him to keep his chin up. He can't slouch, either, because every time he does Hannibal puts his hand on the small of his back, which forces him to discretely arch away. He's uncomfortable, but at least he's standing up straight.

The lobby is crowded with old white couples and the very occasional university student. Will worries that he looks more like Hannibal's pupil than his date. Not that it matters, he reminds himself. He shouldn't care what these strangers think of him.

But he does. Hannibal does too, or he wouldn't have insisted on the suit. Will's palms are sweaty, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Where's the box, then?”

“Just upstairs,” says Hannibal, “but I'm afraid we must shake some hands first. I've also bought us standard seats.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Why?”

“To support the cultural arts,” says Hannibal, “and because one of my fellow professors will be in attendance, and I'd like to introduce you.”

He squints—that doesn't seem like a very good reason to buy seats they're not going to use—but sometimes there's just no accounting for Hannibal's peculiarities. He follows a step behind as they enter the auditorium.

“Do you have the time?” Hannibal asks.

He glances at his watch, yet another expensive gift he didn't ask for. “Uh, ten past seven.”

“Good. At twenty past, you're going to start feeling very ill.”

“What?” He asks. “As in, actually ill, or you want me to fake it to get out of the conversation?”

“Let's wait and see,” Hannibal says with a smile.

Will shakes his head in disbelief. Did Hannibal poison him? If he did, Will can't work up much vitriol over it, perhaps because it's the sort of thing he expects from Hannibal anyway. He can't fault a shark for being a shark.

Their soon-to-be unoccupied seats are in a back corner of the auditorium, which means that Hannibal didn't waste too much money on them, at least.

“Ah, Doctor Lecter! You didn't tell me you'd be here tonight!”

“Professor Kappel, so good to see you,” Hannibal says, shaking the hand of the tall, dark-haired woman in the seat next to his. “The opera was a last minute decision.”

“A good decision,” she confirms. “Have you met my husband Geraldo? Geraldo, this is my colleague, Doctor Lecter.”

Will didn't even notice the short man past his imposing wife. He extends one stubby hand to Hannibal. “A pleasure to meet you,” says Geraldo.

Hannibal gives him a firm handshake. “The pleasure is mine. I believe I've seen you on campus before, but never properly introduced myself. Do you teach?”

“Oh no, no,” says Geraldo, shaking his head. He seems upbeat but jittery. “I study, actually. Classic literature. I'm a writer. Unpublished. Aspiring.”

“A writer is not defined by his demographic. You write, therefore you are a writer.”

He smiles. “I appreciate that. Publishing is so difficult these days.”

“You write fiction, yes? My good friend owns a publishing company based in Rome. If you have a manuscript prepared, I'd be happy to pass it along.”

Geraldo's eyes light up. “Really?”

“Certainly. Just put it in my office letterbox and I'll ensure it finds its way into the right hands,” says Hannibal. “I cannot guarantee my friend will want to publish it, of course, but I can guarantee she will read it.”

“That is always the most difficult part,” says Geraldo. “I should hope the manuscript speaks for itself.”

“That's very kind of you,” says Professor Kappel. She smiles, her straight white teeth a sharp contrast to her angular bobbed hair. “But Hannibal, it seems to me you're avoiding introducing your date.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says warmly. He wraps an arm around Will's lower back and pulls him into the circle of conversation. “Geraldo, Francis, this is Will. Will, Francis and Geraldo Kappel.”

“Nice to meet you,” Will says, shaking their hands mechanically.

“American!” Francis exclaims. “And cute, too. I can't believe we've never met before. Hannibal and I are good friends—we're in adjacent offices—but he's never mentioned you. How did you two meet?”

Will freezes, glancing to Hannibal for reassurance. He wants to tell her there's been a misunderstanding; that he's not actually Hannibal's trophy boyfriend and doesn't want to be known as such, at the university or anywhere else, but Hannibal wants him to play along, and he makes the rules. 

“We, uh,” he stammers. “I, uh. I used to be his patient.”

Francis's eyes widen, her contoured eyebrows threatening to disappear under her fringe. “Doctor Lecter!”

“I realize that our relationship is unconventional, but I assure you, I would never risk my career or reputation for anything less than true love,” says Hannibal.

True love. It makes Will want to vomit.

“I must ask that you please keep the details between the two of you.”

“I always knew there was something dangerous about you,” Francis jokes. “And now I know what it is. Preying on vulnerable young men like that.”

“My relationship with Will is abnormal, perhaps, but completely above-board," says Hannibal. "I referred him long before we were romantically involved.” This is a bald faced lie—as far as Will knows they are still in therapy—but Hannibal is confident that he won't say anything, and he doesn't. He smiles and nods, looking at Geraldo's shoes.

“Excuse me,” Hannibal says. He pulls from his pocket a blue silk handkerchief, brings it to his mouth and coughs once.

Will is suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea. He doubles over, clutching his abdomen.

“Will?” Hannibal asks. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine,” Will says, righting himself with Hannibal's assistance. “Just a bit—oh god.” He takes an involuntary step backwards, toward the aisle.

“If you'll excuse us, I'm just going to take Will to the restroom,” says Hannibal.

“Oh dear. Hurry back,” says Francis.

“Feel better,” adds Geraldo.

Will manages a weak smile. “Thanks,” he says, before Hannibal hurries him out of the auditorium.

Once they're safely out of earshot, he asks, “Do you actually need the toilet, or are you faking it to avoid conversation?”

“Ugh, toilet,” Will groans.

Hannibal holds his hair back as he bends at the waist, vomits dark red wine and the pulpy remains of the fruit tart he had for lunch. His glances around to make sure no one is watching, but everyone in the restroom is too caught up in pissing and shallow conversation to pay him any mind.

“What,” he gasps, once the painful stomach contractions have passed. “How'd you do that?”

“Do what?” Hannibal asks innocently.

“Don't—ugh, you know what,” Will growls. “It was the handkerchief, right?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Hannibal says. He removes said handkerchief once more to dab at Will's lips.

Will grimaces and pushes him away, and then has to brace himself against the cubicle wall as he heaves again. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck you. How did you fucking—”

“Language, Will,” Hannibal chides, though he's far more amused than angry. “If you must know, several of the medications you were given consistently cause nausea. It was simply a matter of placing the handkerchief in your field of vision every time you took them.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. There's no real point in asking why Hannibal would do something like that, because the answer is always selfish curiosity. Instead he says, “Please, just let me fake it next time.”

“My apologies,” says Hannibal without a shred of remorse.

Will looks at him through narrowed eyes. He's not sure whether it's a new phenomenon or he's just never noticed before, but something about Hannibal—maybe his posture, or his expression, or both—seems unnatural. Alien.

“It's fine,” he says, though it's not fine, and he's still tense with suspicion. “Let's just go to the box.”

“Let's,” says Hannibal.

Despite his insistence that they be on time, Piero is running late. Hannibal gives the security guard Piero's name and asks if this is the right box.

The man nods, and then he and Hannibal launch into a rapid conversation in Italian. Hannibal gestures to Will, who awkwardly nods his acknowledgement. “ _Quanto?_ ” Hannibal asks.

The guard debates for a moment. “ _Duecento,_ ” he says.

“ _Prendere trecento,_ ” says Hannibal. He reaches for his wallet and discretely passes the guard three crisp hundred-euro notes. “ _Hai mai visto._ ”

“ _Sí,_ ” says the guard.

“ _Stupendo,_ ” says Hannibal. He takes Will's hand. “You were never here,” he whispers. “Sit with me.”

Will doesn't ask what that means. If Hannibal wants him to know, he'll explain.

The box is comfortable, so he doesn't mind waiting. It's private, modern, hidden behind a pane of one-way glass. There's a low table and three plush seats. In front of the window an unobtrusive glass bar floats at waist height. They have an excellent view of the stage.

Hannibal takes the middle seat while Will leans against the counter, facing him. He doesn't realize that he's waiting for Hannibal to tell him where to sit until he receives the order. “Come here,” he says with a snap of his fingers. “Kneel at my feet.”

Will chuckles awkwardly. He looks from side to side, half expecting a camera crew to jump out from behind the decorative fern. “Uh, are you serious?”

“Yes,” says Hannibal with a straight face. “You're going to suck me off.”

“Um, I—here? What about Piero?”

“I will worry about Piero,” he says. “Now, Will. Kneel. You should work quickly if you don't want him to walk in on us.”

Will doesn't know what to do. He glances at his watch—7:45. Piero was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. He can't believe Hannibal would put him in this situation, can't believe he's even considering it—but then again, he can't honestly say he  _doesn't_  want to suck Hannibal's cock. The time and place are inopportune, yes, but Hannibal wouldn't give the order if he thought it would put Will in danger. Plus, there is something undeniably thrilling about sucking dick at the opera.

He meets Hannibal's dark, predatory eyes and slowly lowers himself to his knees.

“Good,” Hannibal breathes. He tugs him closer by the hair, unzips his fly, and slips his thick, half-hard cock out of his pants. 

“Are you sure about this?”

“Entirely sure,” says Hannibal. He cups Will's face with one gentle hand, thumb brushing across his bottom lip. “Come now; the clock is ticking.”

He wraps his lips tentatively around the smooth head of Hannibal's cock. He takes a deep breath, remembers doing this for the Ripper, and takes Hannibal's shaft into his throat. He swallows several times to combat his gag reflex.

A flash of panic. He remembers a cattle prod, and cold, stiffening flesh, and the word 'priapism.'

He squeezes his eyes shut against the memory and tries to pull away, but Hannibal holds him down.

“Mmng,” he mumbles. Spit bubbles from his lips.

“Keep going,” says Hannibal. “You're doing well.”

That's not what Will is worried about. He knows he's doing well. He's practiced this.

“ _Mmngh!_ ” He grunts, only managing to gag himself. It's actually good thing that he threw up about fifteen minutes ago, because Hannibal is intent upon using his mouth as a fleshlight, fucking him harder and deeper than he can comfortably take. Will didn't expect any less. His comfort only matters until the pants come off.

Empty eyes, the smell of fresh blood. He tries to block out the memory, but the very act of sucking dick makes that impossible. He tastes death, sweat, dissipating body heat. The more he sucks the more concrete the flashback becomes, and the harder it is to convince himself that he's crazy, that something so horrifying couldn't have possibly happened to  _him._

This is a bad time for therapy, Will knows, but he needs to talk right now. He needs Hannibal to tell him that this slowly solidifying memory is fake. That he would never do something like that.

He struggles until Hannibal finally releases his hair, and then pulls back, gasping for breath. “Wait,” he says before Hannibal can shove his cock back in his mouth. “Wait a second. I'm—I'm remembering something-”

“We really haven't the time, Will—”

“No, no,” he says. Words spilling out in a frantic tangle. “Listen. My last victim, his name was Guillaume. He was French-Canadian. The Ripper picked him because he looked just like me. I opened up his head and the Ripper made me—made me—” His breath comes in short, panicked gasps. He can't make himself say the words aloud. Then it would be real.

Hannibal has no such qualms. He looks almost bored.

“Made you fuck his corpse?”

Will's eyes widen. “I—I didn’t—”

“No, you didn't  _fuck_  him, did you; that would be disgusting. You just sucked his cock.” Hannibal smirks down at him. “Many types of violent death pressurize the cerebral fluid, causing a post-mortem erection. Very convenient for you.”

“ _No!_ ” Then, quieter, “How did you—I mean I didn’t—”

Hannibal interrupts him. “And you swallowed, didn't you Will, because you're a whore. You don't even care if the cock you're sucking is attached to a living person, as long as it can shoot a nice big load down your throat. How did you manage that? Let me guess, took a cattle prod to his prostate?”

Will's mouth falls open. Hannibal doesn't hesitate to thrust back inside.

He's in shock. He sucks purely on reflex, still trying to process what he just heard. The thick shaft swells and expands in his throat. He braces his hands on Hannibal's hips and tries to push himself off, but he's nowhere near strong enough. He's so caught up in the struggle that he barely registers the click of the door latch opening.

“I'm sorry,” Piero says after a long pause. “Am I interrupting something?”

Will freezes.

“No, have a seat,” says Hannibal. “We're almost finished.”

Piero shuts the door behind him and takes his seat next to Hannibal with little more than a bemused chuckle, as if this isn't the first time this has happened. Will is mortified.

Hannibal won't let him pull away, though, and since he has no idea how he's supposed to react to this turn of events, he takes the path of least resistance and continues suckling half-heartedly, even though he’s burning with humiliation.

“You never pick the easy targets, do you?” Piero says, appraising Will with his eyes. “Must be quite the power trip getting head from a serial killer, though I'd watch the teeth…”

Will whines around Hannibal's cock. It's a pathetic, involuntary noise of distress, and he is immediately ashamed, but neither Hannibal nor Piero pay any attention to him. Hannibal tips his head back and closes his eyes. “Will knows better than to bite,” he says serenely.

Piero frowns at them. He seems to be looking for a reason to object, which is odd, because Will can think of several reasons off the top of his head.

Just then, the orchestra springs into action and the curtain begins to rise. As if on cue, Hannibal starts to thicken and pulse in his mouth. Will can't believe this is fucking happening. He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see Piero watching him swallow.

Hannibal sighs quietly and holds Will in place for a few more seconds before finally releasing his head. He pulls away gasping. He's a wreck: mouth wet and swollen, eyes puffy; tears and mucous stream down his face in equal measure. He coughs once and avoids Piero's gaze as he scrambles to straighten himself out, wiping his face on his pocket square, as if there is any dignity left to salvage. He sits in the empty chair and resists the urge to draw his knees up to his chest.

Piero chuckles awkwardly. “I suppose this is revenge for med school,” he says.

“Not at all,” says Hannibal. “Just a bit of fun. If memory serves, you and I have rather similar tastes.”

“I don't think so,” says Piero. “I like dark hair and glasses. You like…sociopaths, frankly.”

Hannibal smiles as he smooths down his lapel. “Then it would seem our Will fits the bill perfectly.”

“Hm,” says Piero. His attention shifts between the stage, upon which Lucia has just begun her first solo, and Will, who is trying to become one with the upholstery. “How does this work, then?” Piero asks. “You protect him from the law, and in return…?”

“He obeys me without question,” Hannibal confirms. He stares Will down, daring him to object. “In fact, I could ask him to give you a demonstration after the performance, if you were so inclined.”

“I might be,” Piero says, leering.

Will must be misunderstanding, because there's no way that Hannibal just tried to pimp him out. He has to say something, to defend his honor. He isn’t giving anyone a 'demonstration,' especially not a scumbag like Piero.

“Excuse me,” he says, sitting straighter in his chair. Hannibal shoots him a warning glare, but Will isn't going to take it. He needs to set some things straight. “I don't know what Hannibal has been telling you, or why, but I am not a serial killer.”

Piero laughs sharply. “I didn't mean to offend,” he says. “I'm sure you aren't _now_ , not under Doctor Lecter's care—”

“I was  _never_  a serial killer,” he insists.

“I suppose that's why you ate Alfred Baker,” Hannibal says.

His mouth falls open. He flounders for words. “You know I didn't—the Ripper—”

“Let's not argue over semantics,” Hannibal says coldly. “Why don't you tell Doctor Rosatto what you did to your last victim's body? Or was that the Ripper's idea as well?”

Will falls silent. He doesn't understand why Hannibal is suddenly being so cruel. Why does he seem hell bent on humiliating Will in front of Piero, who he clearly doesn't respect? Why offer to fucking share with him? It doesn't make sense. Nothing has made sense since Will woke up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar country, and he is fucking sick of it.

There's only one way to figure out the truth about what's going on here. He says, “I need to drink some wine, and I'll tell you.”

“A nice rosé while we discuss the finer points of serial murder. You always keep the most interesting company, Doctor Lecter.”

“I try my best,” Hannibal says.

“Right then,” says Piero. “I'll order the wine, and if we're lucky it will arrive before the third act. Service is always atrocious on opening night, even in the box seats. If you'll excuse me.” Piero steps out for a moment, leaving them alone.

“You'd better tell me what the hell is going on,” Will demands as soon as he's out of earshot. “What have you told Piero? Why does he think I'm a serial killer?”

“Perhaps because you committed several related murders over the span of a few months?”

That small, self-assured smile is the single most irritating thing he’s ever seen. “Cut the crap,” Will says. “I want to know—”

Hannibal cuts him off. “Lets take advantage of the time we have,” he says, “and discuss matters that Piero shouldn't overhear. Pay attention, because it is very important that you follow my instructions exactly.”

Will grits his teeth and clenches his fists, because he doesn't trust himself not to punch Hannibal in the face.

“I need you to be civil until the end of the second act,” he says, taking his silent anger as a sign of submission. “During the third act, I'm going to leave you two alone and enjoy the performance from my seat downstairs. When the time comes, you'll know what to do.”

“No,” Will says, shaking his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. I don't fuck your friends just because you say so.”

“Nor do I expect you to,” Hannibal says. “I'm not fond of sharing.”

“Then why—?”

Hannibal raises a hand to silence him. “No more questions,” he says. “I want you to watch the third act until Lucia's 'mad scene.' Ignore any advances Piero might make until that point. Watch the scene carefully, and then look under your seat cushion. You will know exactly how to proceed. As soon as it's done, before the curtains close, leave via the back stairs and meet me in the alley behind the opera house.”

“What?” Will asks. “When what's done?”

But even if Hannibal was going to give him a straight answer—and Will's sure he wasn't planning on it—he doesn't get the chance, because just then Piero nudges the door open, a bottle of pink wine in one hand and three glasses in the other. “They’re so understaffed,” he laments. “I just took the bottle.”

It's surreal, watching him pour the wine and knowing that he has no idea what's actually going on right now. Neither does Will, to be fair. Hannibal has them both under his thumb.

“Thank you,” he says, taking his glass.

“Of course,” says Piero. “Now, I simply can't wait another moment. Tell me everything.”

Will scrunches up his face. “Everything?”

“I understand if you can't get into specifics,” he concedes, “but you must tell me about the experience. What's it like, taking a life?”

“Haven't you ever had a patient die on the operating table?” Will can't help but sound a little spiteful.

“Certainly not by my hand,” says Piero. “And no surgeon intentionally kills a patient, no matter how much some of us might want to!” He glances to Hannibal, awaiting a laugh which, to his credit, Hannibal politely fakes.

Will sips his wine. “I don't know,” he says. He's never thought too hard about it, and now, put on the spot like this, he struggles to find words that don't sound like a cheap erotica novel. “Killing somebody…it's the ugliest thing in the world.”

Piero furrows his brow. It clearly isn't the answer he was looking for. In a tone that suggests he thinks he's humoring Will and not the other way around, he says, “Then why not stop after the first one?”

He takes a second to actually consider the question. The obvious answer is that the Ripper made him kill those people. He couldn't stop. But the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks that might just be a convenient lie he tells himself to keep his conscience clean. He admitted as much in the gelato shop, in the heat of the moment, so there's no good reason to keep up the farce here.

“Why not stop after the first one,” Will repeats slowly, tasting each syllable, buying time. “Because I'm ugly inside.” He shrugs. “That's it. I mean, I don't have any kind of self-aggrandizing monolog prepared for this. Something is fundamentally wrong with me, so deep down that even Hannibal couldn't dredge it up.”

Piero leans forward in his seat, clasping his hands in his lap. Will used to see it all the time in class: the misguided, morbid fascination that has him hanging on every word. The kind of people who send fan mail to death row inmates.

“So you've told him all about it in therapy,” Piero says.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Hannibal mentioned something about your last…victim. About his corpse.”

Straight to the point.

“I really don't think you want me to tell you about that,” Will says.

“I do,” Piero insists. “Trust me, I've made my fair share of bad decisions. I'm not here to judge.”

Will scowls and down the rest of his wine. Fine, whatever. He asked for it.

~

He is strapped to the chair, struggling for his life. Above him, Will brandishes the power drill like a crucifix. He doesn't want to look at Guillaume’s face and see a more human version of himself, but the resemblance is just too striking.

“He didn't handle torture or isolation nearly as well as you did,” Hannibal says. He seems to think it's a high compliment on Will's behalf. “The abnormalities in your psyche which force you to experience the others' trauma also leave you well equipped to deal with your own.” He gestures to Guillaume, who is sobbing incoherently. His face is bright red and puffy, his hair drenched in sweat and matted to his face. He reeks of hot, cloying terror.

“Fear has turned his brain to mush,” says Hannibal. “I'd wager that he has the critical thinking skills of a particularly clever rat at this point. But you, Will—you survived. You endured for me.”

“Death wasn't an option,” Will says curtly. He's not in the mood to play games.

“No, but madness was.”

Will laughs. A spiteful, bitter sound. “Right,” he says. “And this isn't madness. I'm about to take a power drill to this guy's skull, but at least I'm not crazy.”

“‘Crazy’ is one of those words we psychiatrists only dare utter behind closed doors,” Hannibal says, cocking his head. “It has no clinical definition, but is defined by society as a set of very specific, if fluid, deviations from the norm. You were always a trailblazer, Will. Even your deviations deviate.”

“And you just _love_ devious,” Will says, grimacing.

Hannibal cracks a smiles. “You fully understand your actions and their consequences. I wouldn't call you crazy.”

Will pulls the trigger on the drill. It whirs into motion for just a second before he lets it slow to a stop. Below him, Guillaume wails like a banshee. He can't do much else, strapped to the chair—more like a gurney when it's lying flat like this—but still he kicks and twists and screams bloody murder, and the padded white straps don't budge. Will understands all too well the need to fight even when fighting is obviously useless. It's human nature.

“What would you call me, then?” Will asks casually, trying not to look at the struggling body beneath him. “Psychopath? Sociopath?”

Hannibal tsks as if he should already know the answer to that question. “Empathy, Will,” he says. “You feel your victims' pain as if it were your own, and yet…” he gestures to the drill. It speaks for itself, without tact. “If anything, I'd call you a masochist.”

“I'll take that,” Will says. He revs up the drill.

Guillaume's eyes roll wildly in his head. He looks even more like Will when he's terrified, except that he is more terrified than Will ever was in his place. He is likely facing his mortality for the first time. Will's mortality is an old lover.

He crouches until he's at eye level with the back of Guillaume's skull, shaved smooth. The tableau of their reflection is classically composed: this frail imitation of Will's former self, trembling, crying—and hovering above him, Will's glorious becoming. They are separated only by circumstance and a whirring drill.

“Just a moment,” Hannibal says.

He huffs and powers down the drill, wondering what could possibly be more important than exposing this man's dura mater. “What?”

“This is your kill, and I don't want to spoil the surprise,” Hannibal says, “but if you're doing what I hope you're doing, you'll need the hole to be wide. You'd be better off using my trephine attachment.”

“Trephine?” Will asks, frowning.

Hannibal inclines his head toward the shelf. “For trepanation. We humans have been boring holes in each other's skulls since before the days of hand washing and antibiotics, and naturally the technology has come a long way in the interim.”

He almost laughs, because of course Hannibal is always prepared for some casual trepanation. He wouldn't expect anything less. “Okay, sure.”

Hannibal rummages through the shelf to find the surgical instrument. It's a hollow circle of sharp teeth, designed to remove a clean disk of bone from the skull.

The second he sees the device, Guillaume lets out an ear-splitting scream. Will doesn't blame him. It's an intimidating tool, far more so than the standard bit, and as he screws it into the drill he is surprised by just how powerful it makes him feel. One little ring of metal is all it takes to control Guillaume's entire world.

He crouches again. His victim's bloodshot eyes roll back in an attempt to follow him, and then flit back to the mirror. They lock with Will's, silently begging him not to continue.

“Carefully,” Hannibal says. “Start slow. You don't want to kill him just yet.”

“I won't kill him,” Will says, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. He aligns the bit with the fullest point of Guillaume's head and pulls the trigger. It becomes a silver blur of motion, an extension of Will's body. Slowly, a millimeter at a time, it burrows into his skull.

_Wrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

The excruciating sound of metal against bone sets his teeth on edge. The second the steel barbs bite into his scalp, Guillaume screams. “Mercy!” He cries. “M-mercy! Mercy!”

And there's another disappointing difference between the two of them. He hoped a safe word would make this easier, but Guillaume has already rendered it moot. Obviously he can't stop now, not unless he wants Hannibal to drill a hole in  _his_  cranium. Guillaume should know that. He's just not thinking—he is screaming and sobbing and thrashing about ineffectively, but he's not _thinking_ , and nothing he can do will dampen the agonizing pain boring into his occipital bone.

“I'm sorry,” Will whispers. He doesn't know if either of them can hear it over the cacaphony, but it makes him feel better to say it out loud. “I'm sorry,” he says, slicing into the bone, hands steady. “I'm so sorry. I promise it's going to be over soon.”

That's not a lie, at least. Five seconds later the circular bone fragment pops out with a wet sucking sound, revealing the warm, damp interior of Guillaume's skull. Will passes the flap of bone and skin to Hannibal, because he knows that every piece of him must be eventually recycled. The best way to hide a corpse is to ensure there's no corpse left to hide.

He powers down the drill, staring into the hole. He's never seen a living brain before—he reckons very few people have. It's wet and pulsing. Like the rest of Guillaume, it is uncomfortably alive. The man continues begging even after it's over, but his voice has taken on a strange, softer quality, as if he already suspects it's too late.

Will can't do this.

Murder is one thing, and he can dissociate from torture. But this? This is unthinkable. It's  _obscene._ He doesn't care that it was his own idea, because it was a terrible idea. It's too much.

He must be motionless for a few moments too long, because Hannibal asks, “What happens next?”

Will shakes his head. He’s vibrating with nervous energy, on the verge of hysteria. “You know what happens next.”

“I'm afraid not,” says Hannibal.

The bastard. He just wants to make Will say it. Instead, Will says, “I don't think I can go through with this.” He glances pointedly downward. “I mean physically—it's not going to…it's not going to work. I don't perform well under pressure.”

“ _M-mercy,_ ” Guillaume moans again. He's ceased his thrashing in a futile attempt to keep the wound from getting any worse.

Will doesn't meet his eyes, because he knows for a fact he'll lose his resolve if he does, and then they'll both be fucked.

“Why don't you warm him up?” Suggests Hannibal. “Start with your fingers; dilate slowly.”

He's going to be sick. In the mirror: his own face, contorted in agony. “Hannibal—”

“This was your idea,” Hannibal snaps. “The longer you wait, the more he suffers. Do it.”

Dark blood drips sluggishly down his victim's scalp. With his thumb Will smears a drop toward the incision, as if he can somehow push it back in and reverse the damage. He takes a deep breath and touches the pulsing grey matter with one finger. It's soft, springy, impossibly hot.

“Keep going,” Hannibal says, ignoring the breathy little cries from the man on the table. “It feels good, doesn't it?”

Will doesn't answer. He pushes a little harder and, meeting resistance, a little harder still. All at once, his finger tears through the outer membrane and sinks into Guillaume's squishy brain up to the first knuckle. Guillaume yelps like a kicked dog.

“Christ,” Will says under his breath. He can't believe he's doing this.

But Hannibal is right—he can't afford to be squeamish now. Guillaume has a hole in his head. He's dead already. Every second of hesitation only prolongs his misery. Now that Will has punctured its protective membrane, the flesh parts easily to accept another finger.

“ _A-allez,_ ” Guillaume whimpers, “ _je t'en prie, ne pas, je t'en prie…_ ”

Hannibal steps around the chair to get a better view of the carnage. “Please, no more,” he translates, unhelpfully. “Allez is an expression, roughly meaning 'come on.' He wants you to stop.”

Will scowls and jabs a third finger into the hole, eliciting a short scream and a fit of incoherent choking. The brain sucks him greedily inside, pulsing around him. To Will's horror, his only excuse not to continue is becoming less valid by the second.

God, he doesn't want to enjoy this. He would give anything to stop enjoying this.

But he does. He likes it. That's the fact of the matter, throbbing and insistent and impossible to hide.

Hannibal watches him harden with unabashed interest, a self-satisfied glimmer in his darkening eyes. “That's right,” he says. “Listen carefully. Do you hear that? Complete sentences.”

Guillaume is motionless, but sure enough, he's muttering prayers under his breath. Will hopes they bring him some comfort.

“Can he feel it?” He asks in a hushed, almost reverent tone.

Hannibal shakes his head. “There are no pain receptors in the brain itself,” he says, “but it’s going haywire. Even if it doesn't hurt, I can guarantee that it is overwhelmingly uncomfortable. The exact sensation depends on the placement of your fingers. It could be anything from existential ennui to the smell of burnt toast—” Hannibal chuckles “—but if you want to know how he's feeling, you need only look at his face. He wants to die.”

Will twists his fingers to widen the hole. In the mirror, Guillaume opens and closes his mouth in a compulsive rhythm.

“I want to kill him,” Will says softly.

Hannibal smiles. It's perhaps the most genuine smile Will has ever seen from him. “Do it,” he says. “Not with your fingers.” His eyes speak of satisfaction and anticipation, of pleasure and hunger and lust.

Will gently withdraws his fingers and cradles Guillaume's jaw with the wet, bloodstained hand, strokes his bottom lip with his thumb. Perhaps involuntarily, Guillaume's tongue darts out to taste his own cerebral fluid.

He’s rock hard now, because something in his core is twisted and rotten. He’s so swollen that he isn't entirely sure he'll fit in the hole, but there's only one way to find out, and this has gone on long enough.

Still cradling Guillaume's face like a lover's, Will aligns his fat, leaking cockhead with the perfectly circular wound. “I'm sorry,” he whispers one last time. He closes his eyes and thrusts forward.  


Guillaume chokes. The mirror is perfectly positioned so that he can see Will's cock sliding into his skull, millimeter by horrifying millimeter.

“ _Notre p-pére, qui es aux cieux, que ton nom soit s-sanct—sanctifié; sanctifié; sanctifié—_ ”

He keeps repeating that last word—hallowed—like a skipping record as Will sinks into his brain all the way to the hilt. This is it. Will has broken him, ruined his mind. There is no recovery. Guillaume's left hand contracts in a staccato rhythm as he repeats himself, the rest of the prayer obliterated by Will’s invading flesh.

He pulls out, and Guillaume's warm, slick brain sucks him back in. Will is horrified by how good it feels, better than the best blowjob he's ever gotten. He picks up the pace, fucking Guillaume's skull like his life depends on it, which isn't far from the truth.

“ _Sanctifié; sanctifié; sanct—sanct—s-sanct…_ " he falls silent. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, and even though his speech centers are failing, he's clearly awake and aware, in disbelief. Will watches the mirror and sees his own face staring up at him, twitching.

He slams into the hole, rocking Guillaume's entire skull forward with a sickening crack. Hannibal watches over his shoulder, but Will doesn't look at him. He's too busy watching the light fade from Guillaume's eyes. He's on the edge, but forces himself to hold back. He can't stop until Guillaume is dead.

Finally, the twitching stops. The flow of nonsense syllables ends. Guillaume blinks, once, and dies.  


With a groan of relief, Will floods his skull with pulse after pulse of hot come. It's an earth-shattering orgasm, fueled by the knowledge that the warm body wrapped around his cock is only that: a warm body. A corpse. Guillaume's soul no longer inhabits his physical form. Will fucked it out of him.

“Good boy.” Hannibal embraces him from behind. When he pulls out of the brain, his cock is streaked with blood, come, and chunks of gray matter.

“Hannibal,” he whimpers. “Oh my god, oh my g-god—”

Hannibal cradles him. “Well done,” he coos over the frantic stuttering. “I'm very proud of you.” He takes him by the chin and kisses him hard, fucks his tongue into his yielding mouth even as Will begins sobbing. He just takes it. He's given up.

“We're not done yet,” Hannibal says as he draws away.

Will sniffles and looks up at him with wet, doleful eyes.

“It would be impolite not to reciprocate, don't you think?”

For a moment Will doesn't know what he’s talking about, but then his eyes alight on Guillaume's naked corpse, and it becomes terribly clear. Somehow, Guillaume's cock has hardened in death. It juts obscenely from his body.

He doesn't even try to argue. There's no point now. Without a word he kneels on the floor at the foot of the gurney. Hannibal unbuckles the restraints and slides the corpse toward him, so its legs are splayed out on either side of his shoulders.

“It seems he enjoyed being fucked to death almost as much as you enjoyed murdering him.”

A fresh wave of silent tears spills down his face. “Hannibal, please…”

“Priapism,” says Hannibal. “In layman's terms, a death erection. It's a common phenomenon, though it's usually caused by increased cerebral pressure, so it's a pleasant surprise in this case.” He absently trails one hand down the body's pale chest. It's the same casual affection he lavishes upon Will when he's suffering. “He can't come from stimulation now that he's dead, but there are ways around that. I think he deserves one last orgasm. Don't you?”

Will sniffles and wipes his eyes. “Yes,” he says softly. It doesn't matter now. He might as well do what he's told.

“I want you to suck his cock,” says Hannibal, “and I'll make him come for you. Go ahead. Taste mortality.”

It can't get any worse from here. He finds comfort in the knowledge that if there is a Hell, he already has reserved seating. His lips part to accommodate the pale, cooling flesh. He never thought he'd say this—never in a million years dreamed he'd be in this situation—but he's incredibly grateful to be sucking off a corpse rather than a living human being. Guillaume isn't in pain anymore. He isn't afraid. He isn't here at all.

Will licks and mouths at him like he can actually feel it, because that's what he knows how to do. Meanwhile, Hannibal has chosen some new toy off his shelf of horrors, something long and made of glinting steel. A cattle prod.

He crouches beside him with terrible grace, wielding the prod like a spear. In one swift motion he stabs it unprepared into Guillaume's body, just inches from Will's face. It's more puncture wound than penetration, but the body doesn't even twitch. Will flinches in his stead—he had no idea stillness could be so viscerally repulsive.

Hannibal wiggles the probe around until he jabs a spot which makes the dead cock pulse in Will's mouth. “Swallow,” he orders, and pulls the trigger on the handle, sending electricity coursing through the body. Its muscles tense, legs locking up on either side of Will's head, and then he's gagging on an unnervingly cool gush of come. It burns his sinuses and he pulls away, sputtering as it bubbles out of his nose.

“Easy does it.” He claps Will on the back.

The coughing transitons seamlessly back into ugly, messy crying. He can't help himself. He feels defiled. He doesn't deserve sympathy after what he's done, but he can't help nuzzling against Hannibal's leg to beg forgiveness, as if he’s in any position to forgive.

“Shh,” Hannibal says, stroking his hair. “You're alright. You were wonderful.” He allows Will to sob into his suit pants until he runs out of tears, and then hoists him up onto unsteady feet. He says, “I'm so proud of you.”

He sways back and forth, sure he's going to collapse, but the dizziness passes and is replaced, in increments, by something cold and welcome: creeping unreality, spreading outward from his core like blood-borne illness. He is entirely empty, drained of all emotion and resistance. He's too tired to feel guilty anymore, so he doesn't. It's as easy as that.

Hannibal gives him another deep kiss. Will feels nothing.

~

He doesn't know what reaction he's expecting to phrases like 'trepanation' or 'skull-fucking,' but it certainly isn't the admiration—awe, even—which he receives. Far from disgusted by the retelling, Piero is fascinated. He’s…well, he's trying to hide an obvious erection, and Will can't help but wish he could befriend someone normal, for once.

But confession makes him lighter, and Piero is listening, so after he's shared more than he was originally planning to about Guillaume, he launches into Alfred Baker, and Freddie, and the rest, because he might as well. Hannibal doesn't stop him. He listens with an obnoxious little smirk, and Will is far past wondering why he's not repulsed. Everyone has a murder fetish. Why the fuck not?

He finishes as the curtain closes on the second act, having seen even less of the performance than he did the first time they watched it, a lifetime ago. Hannibal and Piero clap, and after a moment Will joins in.

“I don't know about you,” Hannibal says, rising, “but I could use an interlude."

Piero smooths out his suit, face slightly red. “I'll see you in a few minutes?”

“I think I'd rather head to the bar.” Hannibal says. “I've seen this one before.”

They both look to Will, who awkwardly avoids eye contact and says nothing. Hannibal lets himself out.

The silence drags on. He leans against the bar and watches the crowd mill about below, a formless mass of black suits punctuated by the occasional colorful evening gown.

“Would you like more wine?” Piero asks.

Will snorts. “You know, that's the first time you've addressed that question to me instead of Hannibal. Was it the necrophilia that did it?”

Piero furrows his brow, taken aback. “I'm sorry,” he says, “I didn't mean to offend. It's just that I've known Hannibal for a long time, and it's quite obvious that you're…”

Will straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. “That I'm what?”

“Well,  _his._ ” Piero sits down again and refills his glass. “I'm having more wine,” he adds.

“I'll pass,” says Will, scowling. “What is that supposed to mean? Hannibal is my therapist. He's helping me recover. That doesn't make me his property.”

He takes a thoughtful sip. “It's not an insult,” he says. “Hannibal can be possessive. He collects interesting friends the same way I collect paintings, and as far as interesting goes, I daresay you're his Caravaggio original. A legally deceased serial killer.” He chuckles. “I'm sure he regrets he can't show you off more.”

In the window, Will's ghostlike reflection raises its eyebrows. “Legally deceased,” he says. “That's new.”

“Really? It was all over the papers. I had that picture of your burnt corpse on my coffee table for awhile.”

Something clicks.

“Christ,” Will mutters, dragging his hand down his face.

The confusion, the fire, all this talk of running from the law—Hannibal has been lying to him, though to what end he can only speculate. He wants to ask for the truth flat out, but knows he has to be tactful. Even if he's begun to respect Will, Piero still defers to Hannibal. Will doesn't want him to clam up.

But if he was unsure about Piero before, his pathology is now painfully obvious. Like a solved puzzle, he doesn't hold Will's attention.

“You're a fan,” he says dully.

Piero shrugs and fiddles with the stem of his glass, twirling it between finger and thumb. “You could say that.”

“You know, there's a clinical term for what you're feeling—Hannibal taught me this. Hybristophilia.”

Piero chuckles. “Yes, I think he has mentioned that once or twice, though I'm not sure I'd go so far as to call it a paraphilia. I simply admire your work.” He sits up a little straighter. He's trying to impress Will, which is a bit pathetic. Piero isn't a killer; he's a fetishist. Will knows the type. “If you want to know the truth,” Piero says, “I became a surgeon because I'm not brave enough to cut someone open without the law on my side.”

Will feigns a smile and saunters to Hannibal's chair, sits with his legs spread wide and inviting. “I bet you think about it a lot, though,” he says. “Tell me how you'd do it.”

“I, ah, I wouldn't know where to start.”

Of course he wouldn't. Will lazily cracks his neck and relaxes further into the seat. “You want to know what I think?” He asks, twirling a strand of hair around his finger. “I think you just need a little push. With the right guidance, you could get away with it, just like I did. But of course,” he shoots Piero a flirtatious grin, “it's a dangerous game. It's not always the police you have to worry about.”

His face flushes and he looks at the floor. Predictable.

“But I like you,” Will lies, “and I was the Ripper's exception. Maybe you could be an exception.”

His eyes light up. Exception—that's the word every devotee is dying to hear, and Piero is, ironically, no exception. He gets so aroused so fast that Will is almost expecting a cartoonish sound effect.

The third act is underway, but neither of them are watching.

“I thought you were, ah, reformed?” Piero stammers.

Will shakes his head. “Come on,” he says, “you're a doctor. Even gastric bypass surgery is a temporary solution.”

“Y-yeah?” His right hand creeps up his leg, toward the tent in his pants, but his eyes are locked on Will.

“Yeah,” Will says with a smirk. “I mean, you've felt it before. That hunger. It never really goes away.”

Piero hasn't, of course. It took Will five tries to get a taste for it, and he still flinches sometimes when he sees his reflection, afraid that it's somebody else. The truth of it is filthy, grotesque and traumatic—but Piero doesn't want the truth. He wants romance.

“I didn't read the papers,” Will says. “The Ripper didn't let me, and I figured I don't need a journalist to tell me what is and isn't art, but I'm curious. Did they paint me as a victim first, or did they jump straight to prodigy?”

“I didn't know you were abducted at all,” says Piero. “I'm not sure the police know. They said that you copied the Ripper's crimes. Nothing about a kidnapping.”

“Nothing?” He frowns.

“They haven't caught him,” says Piero, “and everyone thinks you're dead. Who's left to tell?” He shifts forward in his chair. It's all Will can do to keep his posture casual and his body language open. “But you knew him,” Piero presses. “You knew who he was.”

Will shakes his head. “I don't remember.”

Piero's shoulders slump. “Nothing at all?”

“No. But it doesn't matter,” he says. “Even if I knew, I wouldn't turn him in. What kind of exception would that make me? I mean, would you turn  _me_  in?”

“Of course not,” Piero says, too quickly.

He doesn't believe that for a second—Piero wouldn't be able to stomach it—but Will humors him. “That's good,” he says. “I've told you a lot already.”

“You can trust me,” Piero insists. “If I was your—”

“Wait.” Will holds up a hand and stands to peer over the bar. Most of the opera has gone completely over his head, but this melody catches his attention.

It’s a moment before Piero takes his meaning, but when he does, he breaks out into a drunken grin. “Ah, the mad scene,” he says. “Only bit worth watching if you ask me.”

Will doesn't answer. He watches. Lucia stands ephemeral in a single spotlight. She drifts across the stage as the orchestra begins its delicate introduction, and then begins to sing a gentle tremolo.

“ _Il dolce suono mi colpi di sua voce._ ”

“ _Ah, quella voce m'e qui nel cor discesa,_ ” Will whispers in response.

He knows this song.

His heart rate triples in the span of a second. He collapses against the bar, head spinning, breath coming in quick, short gasps. Something is wrong.

Piero is talking to him but Will is somewhere else entirely, in a very different sort of box. Will is screaming; he is singing; he is begging for mercy and morphine and more, harder, faster, and  _please, Doctor Lecter, let me kill him quickly._

A familiar face hovers over him. A familiar voice whispers in his ear: “There is no need to fear pain,” it says. “Embrace the pain. Endure this for me, and we can be together.”

As quickly as it came the panic subsides, replaced by cold, biting apathy. It's a headspace Will knows too well. He stands mechanically and takes a quick inventory of the room before asserting himself between Piero and the door.

“What's wrong?” Piero asks. He's all but cowering in his chair, white knuckled fingers gripping the armrests. “Will? What is it?”

Will doesn't answer. He lifts Hannibal's seat cushion to reveal exactly what he's expecting to find: a knife and two latex gloves.

“What's that?” Asks Piero, somewhat hysterically. “Will?”

He slips on the gloves, careful not to touch the outside. They adhere to his wrists with an elastic snap. “You were right about one thing,” he says, tossing the knife casually from one hand to the other before pointing it at Piero. “Hannibal doesn't like to share.”

~

“Fuck me, fuck me, oh god,” Will moans, tossing his head back in ecstasy. He bounces up and down on Hannibal's cock with all the strength in his trembling thighs. Hannibal helps, wide hands braced on narrow hips, always gripping him a little too hard.

He’s has been on edge since Will first bored into Guillaume's skull. And the gutting—his masterpiece drenched in blood, elbow deep in what might as well be his own abdominal cavity—nearly made him come in his pants. But Hannibal prides himself on his impulse control, and he makes himself wait. Only when the meat is neatly packaged and frozen, and the psoas major—the human body's answer to filet mignon—is marinating in the fridge, does he drag Will into his study and onto his lap. Some hasty preparation for his own comfort, and he sinks into Will's warm body.

If it hurts, and Hannibal intends it to hurt, Will doesn't seem to mind. He's lost in his pleasure and takes pleasure in his pain, fucking himself with more vigor than someone so sleep deprived and underfed should be able to muster. His hips twitch into every brutal thrust. He humps the air, desperate to rub his cock against anything, and so Hannibal tips Will's astoundingly fragile body backward just enough to deny him.

Will is on the small side. Even wild as he is with lust, his cock juts maybe four inches from his body, heavy and pink and swollen. He leaks precome like a faucet. It drips down his balls and over Hannibal's cock, so that every motion produces slick, obscene sounds to accompany Will's obscene, nearly incoherent begging.

“Touch me, Doctor Lecter pleasepleaseplease let me—”

Hannibal drags him into a violent kiss. He shuts up in favor of tongue-fucking Hannibal's mouth, sloppy and needy, burning hot. His hips stutter. He forces his cock deep into Will and finally takes him in hand.

Will makes a sound like he's dying and comes instantly, before Hannibal is even finished emptying himself. He revels in the unbearable tightness as Will clenches around him, gasping into his mouth.

He holds him down on his cock until they're both completely soft. Will lets him, because Will lets him do anything he wants. Hannibal wraps his arms around his slim torso, squeezes his ribcage, no longer skeletal but still abnormally prominent—it would be so easy to squeeze too hard and break his ribs, and Will knows it. He's breathing only because Hannibal allows it.

“Do you remember what I said about leaving Baltimore?” He asks, soft rumble against his ear.

Will pulls back to look at him at arm's length. He's disheveled, eyelids drooping, sleepy and sated. “That you can hypnotize me. Make me forget all of this,” he says, “and we can start a new life together. Somewhere warm, where nobody knows my name.” He glances down and away, smiling to himself. “You know I never believed you.”

“I keep my promises.”

His eyes are full of delicious uncertainty and the faintest shade of hope. Hannibal's instinct is always to snuff it out, but just this once, he refrains. He strokes Will's face, thumb brushing over his petal-soft lips.

“I love you, William.”

Will is quiet for a moment. He glances to the side as if waiting for the punchline, and when none is forthcoming, back to Hannibal. “I didn't think you could love anybody,” he murmurs.

Hannibal smiles. “Nor did I.”

Elation ripples through his body, hard though he tries to hide it. It turns up the corners of his mouth and sets his eyes alight. He shakes his head, grin spreading across his face. “Hannibal…” he says. “God, I—I love you too. More than anything.”

They kiss, and Will melts into his arms, arching the entire length of his body into Hannibal like he wants to be absorbed.

“Italy,” Hannibal breathes as he pulls away. “Tomorrow night. I've always wanted to show you Florence. It's the most beautiful city in the world.”

“Tomorrow?”

He nods. “In a private jet. I've already arranged for everything.”

Will flings still-trembling arms around his shoulders. “I love you,” he says fiercely. “God, Hannibal.”

“I must ask something of you before we begin packing,” he says.

“Anything,” says Will.

His mouth curls. He grips Will's naked thigh with one broad hand and says, “If you were forced to choose, which limb could you live without?”

~

“Don't you dare scream. You're going to do everything I say, and as long as you cooperate, I won't kill you. Do you trust me?”

There's a lag while the cogs whir behind Piero's eyes. He shakes his head, a stilted “no.”

“That's too bad,” Will says, “because you're mine now. I own you. I know that's what you want, even though it scares you.” He takes a step forward and presses the flat of the blade to his cheek, relishing the flinch and sharp intake of breath it elicits. He smiles. “Close your eyes.”

Piero doesn't hesitate. He squeezes his eyes shut as if being unable to see the knife will keep it from hurting him.

Will could do it now—should do it now, should slit his throat and make a run for it—except he's finally realizing why movie villains always pause for that fatal lecture. He wasn't just talking dirty. For these few precious minutes, he _owns_ Piero, mind, body, and soul. It's a power trip.

“I could make you kill for me,” he says, voice husky. “You'd like it. I could make you like it. Wouldn't that be nice, all of the pleasure of taking a life with none of the responsibility?”

Piero only shudders. Will can't help but wonder if his life is flashing before his eyes yet, and if so, was it worthwhile? What does he regret? Inviting Hannibal and his arm candy to the opera, certainly. Letting his dick do the thinking. He doesn't regret suppressing the urge to slice a little too deeply in the operating room, because behind the bravado, Piero is disappointingly normal. He's no more capable of murder than a German Shepard is capable of tap dancing—that is, Will could train him to do it with a lot of time, patience, and steak bits, but it's really not worth the effort.

Enough indulgence, then. He won't jeopardize the plan for a power trip, so he plunges the knife into Piero's throat.

His eyes fly open; he tries to speak, but it's too late. He's already choking on his own blood. At least he has the decency to be quiet about it.

He collapses into Will's waiting arms, sputtering.

“Shh-sh-sh, there we go.” He cups Piero's jaw and turns his head so their eyes meet—the touch is gentle, almost loving. In life Piero was uninteresting at best, obnoxious at worst, but here, teetering on the precipice, his vulnerability is beautiful.

He’s seen that expression before: betrayal and disbelief and fear of the unknown all rolled up into a neat little package, wrapped in butcher's paper, tied off with a bow. He's already fading. Before he loses that last pint, Will leans in close and whispers in his ear.

“I don't make exceptions.”

~

He knows better than to ask why Hannibal is tying him up, and by the time he's bound into a ball, ankles to thighs to wrists, it's already too late.

“I've packed your things,” he says. “We'll be leaving for Italy soon.”

“Ah!” Will flinches away from sharp sting of IV needle at the back of his hand. “What? Like this?”

“You're a missing person, and you don't have a visa. Don't worry, I'll keep my luggage in the cabin.”

“Don't do this,” Will says. He takes slow, shaky breaths. “I haven't seen sunlight in weeks, Hannibal.”

“Months.”

“In months,” he amends. “I don't care if you decide to strangle me in the airport parking lot, as long as you take me  _outside_. You know I'm motivated to cooperate. If you get caught, we both get convicted—or  _I_  get convicted, and you get famous.” Hannibal isn't listening to him. “It's a private jet, Doctor Lecter. There has to be another way to do this.”

“You cannot be seen in the Baltimore airport. Trust me, Will, this is the only way.” He fills a syringe with something Will can't see and screws it into the IV port, depresses the plunger. For just a second he feels a phantom rush of liquid morphine, but no—it's something else, an uncomfortable tingling sensation which spreads up his arm and engulfs his whole body.

He tries to speak, only to find his tongue is no longer responding to his brain. This isn't morphine.

“I've injected you with pancuronium,” Hannibal says.

Will is on the verge of panic. No morphine.

“It's a paralytic used during surgery. You won't be able to move for about ninety minutes, after which I'll give you another dose.”

No  _fucking_  morphine.

He tries to open his mouth but his jaw is locked. He grunts, two syllables.

“You may experience an increased heart rate, but that's to be expected and it's nothing to worry about. This,” says Hannibal, stretching a rubber wristband over Will's hand, “is a heart monitor. It connects to an app on my phone. If you're in any danger, I'll know about it.”

Will can't speak. He can't make any sound now, his entire body stiff and unresponsive. He's uncomfortably aware of the spit in his mouth. He's salivating more than usual but can't swallow, and to his embarrassment, he drools down his chin and onto his chest.

“That's also a common side effect,” says Hannibal. “Stay put; let me fetch your suitcase.”

He disappears from Will's line of sight.

Stay put. What an asshole.

Suddenly, the world jerks and spins. When it stops, once his head stops pounding, he realizes his vision is locked on the ceiling. He's not breathing. He can't breathe. Even as his lungs slow his heart begins to race.

The phone beeps.

“Ah,” says Hannibal.

He straps a heavy rubber anesthesia mask to Will's face, flush against his nose and mouth. Will knows what it is, but he's not expecting it to be so  _violating_. It's a disgusting, alien sensation—an involuntary breath followed by a sudden drop in pressure. Soft whir of the pump as he inhales, soft puff of air as he exhales. The panic recedes as the machine forcefully regulates his breathing.

“Much better,” says Hannibal. “Almost done. This is just a catheter, because this luggage was expensive and you won't be able to walk to the airplane bathroom.”

Will can do nothing but lie passively as Hannibal takes his cock in hand and begins working a plastic tube into his urethra. It burns a little bit. He can't make any outward sign of distress, but Hannibal knows he's hurting. He injects saline into the port, which expands the little rubber balloon inside of Will's bladder. It's not coming out. He connects the other end to a bag strapped to Will's thigh.  
The IV tube runs up and out a small hole near the suitcase's handle, perfect for…stealth injections, he supposes.

“And that's it. I've chartered the jet to Montreal—paid off everyone along the way, obviously—and Piero's private plane will be waiting for us at the airport. You only need to make it out of the States like this, and then we're home free. You'll have plenty of room to lie down. I'll have to pack you up again while we go through customs, but that won't take long. Three hours of confinement, at most.”

Will's eyes roll in his head, because that's the only muscle group he can still control.

Three hours, bound and motionless in this dark, narrow space. Three hours unable to lift a finger, unable to twitch, unable to swallow his fucking spit, oh god, oh fuck no no no—

Hannibal's phone beeps.

He glances at it, chuckles, and says, “I’d advise you to remain calm, or this will be a very uncomfortable journey.” He crouches over the suitcase, barely more than a shadow. “You're going to be alright.” He ruffles Will's hair, which would be a sweet gesture were Will able to fix it himself. “Be good. I'll see you on the other side.”

Will wants to scream, but of course he can't. All he can do is blink and drool as Hannibal zips the case shut, plunging him into darkness. He hears the click of a padlock, and then his only company is the soft hum of the ventilator.

~

It's strange to witness the airport ritual from the luggage's point of view. The muffled announcements about gate changes and unattended baggage, the sprinting footsteps of late passengers, the low hum of escalators and conveyer belts—all are comfortingly familiar, and none are his concern. Once he acclimates to the horror of being incapable of voluntary movement, the most irritating part of the journey is honestly the hair in his face. And the asshole who crashes a baggage cart into his side. In all fairness, he had no reason to consider the suitcase's feelings.

Will is half hoping that they'll get stopped by security. He has no idea what he'd do in that situation, but he doesn't have to find out, because, true to his word, Hannibal has already paid their way through. Money is the ultimate deux ex machina.

Take-off isn't so different from this perspective, except that he can't move his jaw, so when his ears pop as they climb through the sky, they stay like that for the rest of the flight. Unpleasant, but certainly not the most unpleasant thing he's experienced. He must fall asleep soon after that, because the next thing he knows he's being dragged across carpet, back into the airport soundscape.

They board the second flight in record time—one advantage of traveling by private jet. Still, his back is killing him and he's getting antsy waiting for Hannibal to let him out. A tingle of sensation returns to his fingers and toes, and he immediately starts fidgeting, which helps a little.

Finally, once the plane's altitude has leveled off, Hannibal opens the bag.

Will breathes sweet, climate-controlled air. His body is full of pins and needles, and Hannibal has to lift him out and deposit him on the bed, because he can't do it on his own.

“Glad to see you're still breathing,” he says.

“Mm,” Will mumbles through the respirator. He can't move his head, but at least he's regained some control of his voice.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Hannibal smiles as he enters Will's field of vision. “We made it,” he says. “It should be smooth sailing from here on out. The paralytic will wear off quickly, but I promise I won't remove the respirator until you ask me to. Shall I sit with you in the meantime?”

Will is glad he can't communicate yet, because he needs some time to work out what he's feeling. Guilty, maybe, but also lighter. A weight has been lifted from his shoulders that he wasn't even aware he was carrying. “Mm-hmm,” he grunts.

A moment later Hannibal is lying next to him, propped up on one elbow and running his free hand down Will's naked chest. It occurs to him that he's naked on an airplane, in a bed, and he doesn't even know if they're alone in the cabin. He has a lot of questions, but Hannibal begins massaging his sore shoulders, and he decides that all of them can wait.

~

He steps out the fire escape and into  _il temporale balena_ , the whale storm, which has apparently lain in wait for some well-timed symbolic baptism. Water cascades from the sky with nearly enough force to knock him off his feet. It's pointless, though. The Good Shepherd himself couldn't wash away Will's sin.

This suit is ruined. He clutches the sodden ball of wool that was his dinner jacket to his chest like a swaddled infant, hurries down the stairs and into the chaotic night. Cars rumble in the distance. Every sound, every reflected sliver of light makes him cringe. Nobody will be in the alley at this hour, but that does little to steady his skittish pulse.

When he first sees Hannibal, he nearly stops breathing. He is a well-tailored silhouette in the dazzling moonlight, leaning against the wall under the overhanging mansard roof of some out-of-hours restaurant. At twenty feet away he can tell that Hannibal is dry—always so irritatingly composed—and, even more surprising, he's  _smoking_.

As Will approaches, he straightens up and flicks his cigarette into the rain, where it sizzles and dies. He smiles. Will never noticed how pointy his teeth were before. A carnivore through and through.

“You don't smoke,” he says as soon as he's within earshot.

“I'm keeping a low profile,” says Hannibal. “You should try it sometime.”

Under the awning, he draws near enough to feel Hannibal's warmth through the frigid rain. His retort is washed away by an unexpected torrent of relief as their bodies touch. Will is utterly blindsided. Still clutching his jacket, he presses as close to Hannibal as he can, buries his face in the crook of his neck and inhales his heady cologne. When he pulls away his eyes are puffy and red.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Jesus, Hannibal. I thought I'd never see you again.”

They both know what he means.

He slips his fingers into Will's soaking hair. Even now, in the midst of their daring escape, Hannibal spares a moment to kiss him—he captures Will's lips with a passionate precision usually reserved for fine dining and homicide. The kiss tastes of smoke and expensive rosé, and, beneath that, something dark and familiar and raw.

The moment is over too quickly, and Hannibal gently pushes him away. “I've hired a car,” he says, conjuring an umbrella from seemingly nowhere. Even in its island of protection Will shivers, partly from the cold but mostly from the massive adrenaline crash. 

He's an absolute wreck compared to Hannibal, whose fucking blue handkerchief is still neatly folded in his pocket, but he's long since realized that Hannibal makes a very bad benchmark. At least the rain has washed most of the blood away.

As Hannibal leads him by the hand down the deserted side street, he glances down at the jacket. “What are you holding?” He asks.

Will also looks down. In all the excitement of their reunion, he almost forgot what they came for. “Oh, right,” he says, absently fingering the bloody wool. “My trophy.”

A sliver of light cuts through the darkness. Hannibal's face hovers above him. He looks fresh and well rested.

“Welcome home.”

Will is silent as Hannibal hoists his immobile body out of the bag and onto a cold marble countertop.

“No need to worry. I told you I keep my promises, and I've already programmed you with a cue which will make you forget these past months, insofar as it's possible to induce amnesia intentionally. That is what you want, correct? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Will blinks once. His vision is full of dark spots, and the light makes his head pound. He focuses all his energy on twitching his fingers, and is pretty sure he feels some movement. He's still bound, blind and confused, but this is progress.

Hannibal smiles. “Excellent,” he says. “There's one matter I must attend, and then I'll activate the light trigger and all of this will disappear. You'll be out of commission for a few months, during which I'll begin your rehabilitation. Trust me when I say it will save you a lot of discomfort. Blink once if you understand me.”

He doesn't like the sound of that, but he only has two options available: once for yes, twice for no. He doesn't want Hannibal to change his mind about the memory wipe—god knows he wants to forget this horrible period of his life, even though he's skeptical that it will work. He blinks once.

“Perfect,” says Hannibal. He circles behind Will, out of his field of vision.

Suddenly there's a tug at his hand and a syringe in his IV port. Will's heart skips a beat. Morphine?

“Last dose,” says Hannibal, and depresses the plunger.

It's not morphine. It's another uncomfortable rush of paralytic tingles, and within ninety seconds Will's limited range of motion is stolen from him once again. He wants to fucking scream.  _Why?_  They made it through customs without a hitch. They're alone now. What's the point of keeping him immobile?

He struggles, blinks twice, pauses, blinks twice—but Hannibal isn't looking at him. Hannibal is doing something in the vicinity of his knees, but Will can't move his head to see what. He blinks and blinks.

Whatever Hannibal is doing to his leg takes almost twenty minutes, during which he never once once meets Will's eyes. When he finally reappears, a menacing silhouette under harsh kitchen lights, Will blinks twice.

“Too late for that,” Hannibal says. He smiles, revealing sharp teeth. “If you're clever, you'll have already figured out what happens next, but I'll explain for the sake of professionalism. Before I put you to sleep, I'm going to amputate your left leg.”

Will screams, or tries to. Every ounce of his willpower produces only a soft grunt. Inside he's begging, _please, anything but this._

Hannibal brushes hair out of his wide, horrified eyes. “Since this is a one man operation, I can't give you any anesthesia without risking asphyxiation. I'm sure you understand. But don't worry—the paralytic will keep you still, and I'll work quickly. I'm monitoring your vitals. I've performed this exact procedure eleven times, so I can promise that you're safe in my care.”

No anesthesia. No painkillers. Fuck, this isn't happening. This can't be fucking happening.

The minutes drag on. Any second now he'll feel the scalpel bite into his flesh. It's going to happen. There's nothing he can do to stop it. Fear is burning Will alive, but he remains utterly motionless as Hannibal dresses for surgery, as he sterilizes himself and Will and everything else in the room, as he draws lines on Will's leg with a surgical marker.

Caustic, fight-or-flight panic cascades through his body. It eats him from the inside out. This can't be happening. Please, God, don't let this happen.

Then it's happening. Sharp, searing, white-hot pain bites into his left shin, worse than anything he's ever experienced, worse than anything he can even imagine.

Pain becomes his entire world. Pain is his past, present, and future. It obliterates every conviction he's ever held, every song that's ever moved him, every person he's ever loved—everything that makes him human. There is only pain, and terror, and the bright stucco of the kitchen ceiling.

Will can't see what's going on, but he can feel it. God, can he feel it. Hannibal destroys his upper calf layer by agonizing layer, accompanied by the familiar scent of burning flesh. He cuts for hours, for days, and Will would pray for death but he's forgotten what it is to die. His suffering is entirely self contained, meaning that to Hannibal, it doesn't exist at all.

Just when he thinks it can't get any worse, a loud metallic hum splits the air and the pain explodes through his body. Hannibal is speaking to him. Will can't understand the words, but they burn themselves onto something deep within him.

“There is no need to fear pain,” he says. “Embrace the pain. Endure this for me, and we can be together.”

A flash of light. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he's in a garden. Eden, he hopes.

~

The ride home is surreal, to say the least. Will tends to avoid cabs, because he hates how cab drivers always insist on  _talking_  to him, but it's almost worse sitting alone in the back seat. He's dripping wet and hiding his bloodstained shirt cuffs beneath his bloodstained jacket. A silent accessory.

To his credit, the driver is discrete. He barely even looks at him, because Hannibal is the obvious benefactor here. A well dressed older man and his disheveled young companion. Will can only imagine what he thinks.

After an excruciating forty minutes of small talk, to which Will only listens, Hannibal leaves a outrageously generous tip and holds the door for him. Ever the gentleman.

Even though the cab was warm, his socks are soaked and he's shivering, mostly from shock. Forty minutes and it's still sinking in—the magnitude of what he's done, of what was done to him. Of who did it. He can't believe he thought he'd escaped, when Hannibal has been holding him hostage this entire time. He knows it should make him sick, but he's far past caring about how he  _ought_  to feel. He feels weightless and giddy, tired and bewildered and more himself than he has in ages.

Hannibal hangs his jacket on the coatrack and then places Will's, still wadded up, on the kitchen counter. He doesn't peek. Will smiles to himself as he kicks off his shoes and strips off his socks. With deliberate hands and a sidelong glance at Hannibal, he unbuttons his shirt and drapes it over a coat hook, followed by his belt, his pants—he wants so badly to turn and see if Hannibal is watching, but keeps his back to him as he peels off his underwear to stand naked in the warm light of the foyer.

Sure enough, Hannibal is riveted. They lock eyes. It's the first time they've done so without pretense, without the mind games or metaphor or edifice, and in his shirt and tie, Hannibal is just as naked as Will.

“What did you take?” He asks.

Will strides to the kitchen island. “See for yourself.”

The rough wool of his pants scratches against Will's naked hip. He peels back the jacket like petals from a tightly closed rosebud, reverent. Inside, nearly black in the distant light from the hallway, rests Piero's motionless heart.

Violence makes Will insatiable, but Hannibal makes him wait. They dispose of the evidence. Will remembered to take the knife with him, because he learned from the best, and he assures Hannibal that nobody saw him leave. As far as anyone else is concerned, Doctor Lecter took his companion home before the show began, leaving his seats empty.

“We could cook the heart,” Hannibal says, “or if you like, perhaps something a little more…intimate. It is your trophy, of course, so it's entirely up to you how we use it.”

Will cocks his head and smiles with teeth, an evil little smirk which suits his features well. “Intimate,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Do  _you_  want to eat it?”

He nods. “Always.”

And then Will—beautiful, perfect Will; Hannibal's glorious masterpiece, hewn from marble in his own image—Will takes the heart is his hand, blood dripping down his wrist, lifts it to his lips, and sinks his teeth into the meat. He chews and gnashes and comes away with a massive bloody chunk.

He swallows the morsel without breaking eye contact. Hannibal is awestruck.

Will rips away another strip of flesh. He takes a fistful of Hannibal's hair and forces their mouths together, forces Hannibal's lips to part, forces the raw, bloody meat onto his tongue. Hannibal allows this. He revels in it. Will grips both sides of his face, licking and sucking at the meat until Hannibal finally bites down. Cool, rich blood bursts across his palette, tasting of iron and death.

He can't restrain himself any longer. He entwines his fingers in Will's, the heart squishing between their palms, and shoves him up against the counter. Will snarls like an animal and Hannibal steals the sound from his lips. He bites, and Will bites him, until neither of them are sure whose blood is overflowing from their mouths.

“Mine,” Hannibal growls.

“Oh, _yours._ ”

Hannibal drops to his knees, taking the heart with him. His hot breath caresses Will's cock. Will thrusts into the heat, head brushing against Hannibal's lips, but he pulls away.

“I'd like to try something,” he says. “You left the aorta intact.”

Will groans, immediately taking his meaning.

He slips his thumbs into the severed aorta and gently stretches it open until the three branches tear to form one gaping hole. Once the opening is big enough, he slips it over the head of Will's cock.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, this is—Hannibal—Jesus Christ.”

“Push,” says Hannibal. Will does. There's moment of resistance and he's sure the flesh will rip, but then Will forces past it and his cock sinks all the way inside with a satisfying squelch.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he breathes.

While he uses the heart to jerk him off, Hannibal sucks lightly on his balls, tongue flicking out to catch stray drops of blood. He's never been more pleased with himself. Will has far exceeded his expectations. He always had the capacity for violence buried somewhere deep in his damaged psyche—Hannibal only had to dig it up.

It's over much too soon. The heart pulses in his grip, briefly restored to life by Will's twitching cock as he comes into the left ventricle. Hannibal comes into his hand soon after, spilling onto the already soiled kitchen tile.

He stands and straightens himself out. There's blood all over his white dress shirt, but that's a hazard of the job. 

Will is heaving, braced against the kitchen island, eyes wide, lips parted. Hannibal gives him a peck on the cheek.

“Dinner?” He asks.

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed (spoilery) warnings:  
>  **Abusive relationship:** physical, sexual, and psychological abuse which evolves from non-consensual torture to dubiously-consensual BDSM  
>  **Amputation:** graphic, non-consensual amputation of one leg below the knee, without anaesthesia  
>  **Blood:** coughing blood, drinking blood, vomiting blood, playing in blood, bleeding to death  
>  **Corpses:** graphic butchering and eating of corpses, sex between two living people in a pile of entrails, organ fucking, graphic necrophilia (fucking someone to death, post-mortem blowjobs; fresh corpses only.)  
>  **Cannibalism:** unknowing cannibalism, forced cannibalism, autocannibalism, erotic cannibalism, detailed descriptions of cooking human meat, consumption of both cooked and raw human flesh  
>  **Claustrophobia:** graphic depiction of someone trapped in an extremely small space for an extended period of time  
>  **Death:** death by asphyxiation, blood loss, throat slitting, skull fucking; fetishized death and psychopathy  
>  **Dental trauma:** pulling teeth without anaesthesia, shattering/impacting teeth, biting through one's tongue and subsequent corrective surgery  
>  **Emotional abuse:** gaslighting, psychic driving, bad therapy, intentional abuse/triggering of mental illness, lying, guilt-tripping, nonconsensual conditioning (for arousal and nausea)  
>  **Drug use:** non-consensual morphine addiction, non-graphic withdrawal, non-consensual administration of paralytics, therapeutic use of benzodiazepines  
>  **Humiliation:** situational, verbal, semi-public, ruined reputation  
>  **Starvation:** prolonged starvation, graphic depiction of emaciation, force feeding, begging to eat human flesh  
>  **Captivity:** kidnapping, long-term confinement, sensory deprivation, isolation  
>  **Drinking:** casual social drinking, mention of drinking as self-medication  
>  **Sex:** oral, anal, protected, unprotected, consensual, non-consensual, non-con oral with a healing mouth wound, skull fucking  
>  **Medical:** non-con amputation, drug use, oral surgery, medical fetish, catheterization, force feeding  
>  **Murder:** intrusive thoughts about murder resulting in guilt, erotic murder fantasies, forced to commit murder  
>  **Needles:** IV needles, pins pushed into soles of the feet  
>  **Self-harm:** self-inflicted burns, suicidal ideation, self-hatred  
>  **Smoking:** one mention of smoking cigarettes  
>  **Suicide:** failed suicide attempt by benzodiazepine overdose, private suicide note made public, attempted suicide by biting through one's own tongue, attempted suicide by self-inflicted head trauma  
>  **Swearing:** moderate swearing, no slurs except 'crazy, insane,' etc used by a mentally ill person  
>  **Torture:** creative torture, psychological torture, caning, burning with heat lamps, impact play, forced surgery, waterboarding, breaking fingers, pulling teeth, confinement, isolation, sensory deprivation, bondage as torture, forced to commit murder, forced necrophilia  
>  **Vomit:** forced vomiting, vomiting blood, slight vomiting during oral sex, (non-graphic descriptions of the vomit itself, no messy play or eating vomit)  
>  **Watersports:** urination, urination on self, piss drinking, holding/desperation  
>  **Weapons:** knives, scalpels, drills, meat cleaver, caning, impact play, brief mention of gun violence
> 
> This is pretty exhaustive but I've probably still missed some things. If you notice anything, please let me know.


End file.
